Sous le ciel de France
by sterrenkijker
Summary: France, 1942. Enoch O'connor, an English Jew, meets a French male nurse in Vélodrome d'Hiver, the bicycle velodrome and stadium in Paris where thousands of Jews are confined.
1. S'il le faut

Enoch's eyes drifted over the enormous crowd, hands in his pockets. He'd always wondered how many people could fit into the Vélodrome, the bicycle racing track in Paris, and was sure that _this_ was too much. Why did they ever think keeping thousands of Jews in this place would be a good idea?

'Mon Dieu, vous s'êtes battu?! Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?'

He frowned, turning his head.

And had to look down to make eye contact with the person who'd spoken to him: a young man, maybe a year younger than he was, with blonde hair, pale blue eyes and a pointy face. Judging by the clothes he was wearing he was one of the nurses who worked at the infirmary in the middle of the Vélodrome, which was very convenient since that was why he was here. Blood was slowly dripping down the right side of his face and although he was slowly beginning to feel the pain in his cheek again, he'd been hesitant to actually go up to someone and ask for help.

'Excusez-moi,' the young man continued, reaching up. Enoch immediately backed away. 'Sorry, I don't really speak French – je ne parle pas Français –'

This was a lie. His French wasn't bad at all, mostly because he'd spent the last 5 months with Parisian students who couldn't speak English to save their lives, but for some reason he hoped the nurse would leave him alone if he realised they didn't speak the same language.

That wasn't the case.

'Oh, I can speak some words in English,' the boy said with a heavy accent, smiling up at him. 'Can I look at your wounds, monsieur? They are horrible and I can see you are, euh...'

'Bleeding. That's correct.' Enoch kept his voice monotone and his way of speaking short. He knew someone had to take care of the bruises and cuts on his face, but he'd never liked it when someone was fussing over him.

The nurse mumbled something in French, before looking him the eyes again. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. 'I will need to clean them. They will get infected otherwise.'

'If you must.'

The boy smiled politely. 'Venez avec moi, s'il vous plaît.'

Enoch felt like he didn't have a choice at this point. Without protesting in any way he followed the young man, passing other nurses, doctors and patients.

The whole stadium was filled with noise, which would've driven him completely insane in any other situation, but for some reason the young Jew had been nothing but calm for the past day since the moment he'd entered Vélodrome D'Hiver.

Well, if you didn't count his attack on the French soldier fifteen minutes ago.

Other than that, he'd been as reserved as someone could be.

'Please, sit.' The nurse gestured towards what was clearly supposed to be an improvised hospital bed, placed in the middle of the track field. Enoch obeyed quietly, sitting down. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off and now he could actually feel what had happened – the soldier had managed to give him a few good punches to the face before they'd been pulled apart and especially his left cheek hurt like hell.

'What happened?' The young man appeared in front of him again, a piece of cloth in one hand and a small bottle filled with liquid in the other. 'You did not fall?'

'No. Punched a Nazi. In my defence, he was incredibly – oi! Watch it!' The nurse had touched his bleeding cheek with the piece of cloth and the wound immediately began to sting, due to the disinfecting liquid. In a reflex, Enoch pushed his hand away.

'Oh, excusez-moi – I am just trying to clean the wound, monsieur...?'

The young man looked up, eyebrows raised.

'O'Connor. Enoch.'

'Ah. Merci.' He smiled, before raising his hand again. 'Alors. Do I have your permission, monsieur?'

'Hm. Sure. If you tell me your name.'

The young man smiled. 'Horace Somnusson. You should not punch a soldier, monsieur, it does not matter that they were rude.'

Enoch flinched when the nurse, who now had a name, touched his cheek again, but tried his best to stay still. 'They dragged me out of my room at 5 in the morning and I'm not allowed to punch the bastard in the face when he insults me?'

Horace continued cleaning the wound and didn't look up to him, but Enoch could see how his smile had faded and his expression had turned serious. 'I know what happened before all these people got here. A person told me what they did.' Enoch knew "they" were the Nazi's, so he didn't say a word. 'I do not agree with their actions, but I think that you should not make them angry. It will, euh…' He hesitated, clearly looking for the right words as his hand hovered in the air. 'It will get you into trouble.'

'I'm not in any trouble,' Enoch answered, sounding a bit annoyed. Why did this boy – because he was, in fact, still a boy, hardly older than 18 – worry so much about his wellbeing? 'I got off with a warning.'

'Then you should remember that.'

They both fell silent for a few moments, as Horace walked away and disappeared out of sight, before returning with what seemed like bandages.

'Alors… You will need to come back after a few hours, monsieur, so I can look at your wounds again.'

'Please, don't call me _monsieur_. And I think I'll be alright, honestly.'

Horace, who was now busy covering up the one cut on his cheek, glanced at him. 'You appear as someone who can take care of himself,' he answered with a somewhat mocking tone in his voice, but with a faint smile on his face. 'You hit a soldier. But I am very serious, mon-' He quickly cut himself off when he saw Enoch looking at him. 'Enoch.' His smile grew wider.

There was something about this boy that kept Enoch from disliking him. He couldn't exactly point it out – maybe it was the little smiles, or the way he pronounced his English (and mispronounced Enoch's name, which he somehow didn't mind).

'Can I ask you why you are in France? You are from England?'

'Yeah, born and raised in London.' For the first time, Enoch smiled. 'When I turned nineteen, I thought it would be a good idea to spend a year abroad. So I travelled to Amsterdam, stayed there for two weeks and then decided to go to Paris. That was five months ago.'

'You did not know that the Germans were here?'

'Oh, I did.' His smile slowly faded again. 'I just thought…' He didn't finish his sentence. What _had_ he thought? That he wouldn't get into any trouble because he was British or something?

Horace didn't ask any follow-up questions and finished covering up the cut on Enoch's cheek in silence. When he was finally done, the taller boy decided it was his turn to ask a question.

'Aren't you a bit young to be a nurse? And how is your English so good? Most people I've met so far never bothered to learn another language besides their own.'

With another smile, Horace picked up the remaining bandages before looking up at him again. 'My grandfather was from England. When we are with him, we are not allowed to speak French.'

'Makes sense.' Enoch glanced at a passing doctor before looking back at Horace. 'But you're younger than me, right? Why are you here?'

'I assist my father. He is a doctor.' Horace turned around and pointed at a tall man in a white coat, who was talking to a female nurse with his back turned towards them. 'I am here to help him. And the people that need my help, of course. I want to be a doctor when I am older.' He looked back at Enoch. 'Is it still hurting? I mean your cheek?'

'Not as much as before. Thanks.' Enoch smiled at him, before standing up from the hospital bed so he had to look down to make eye contact again. 'I, uhm, you said you wanted to check on me later?'

'Oui, before you go to sleep, s'il te plaît. After dinner.'

'Got it. Thanks again.'

Horace just gave him a polite smile. 'Until then.'

Walking back across the track, Enoch glanced over his shoulder, but Horace was already helping someone else and didn't notice. So he kept walking, hands in his pockets and looking straight ahead.


	2. Parle bien ou parle rien

'Hey, you... Are you okay?'

It was getting darker in the stadium. People were starting to light some lanterns and it was getting quieter as well, which created a weird ambiance that Enoch couldn't really ignore.

But that wasn't really important right now.

He'd found a small, blonde girl on his way back after getting something to eat, crouched in a corner and hiding her face behind her hands, and with a bowl of watery soup in one hand he knelt down in front of her.

'Where are your parents?' He wasn't speaking in English anymore, but had switched back to his basic French as he addressed her. This was a whole other situation than when he'd met Horace a few hours ago.

The girl looked up, raising her head out of her hands. She couldn't be much older than 7, and from the looks of it she'd been crying. He smiled at her in an attempt to comfort her, before repeating his first question: 'Are you okay?'

No answer. She just stared at him, eyes wide and hands covering her mouth.

His smile quickly faded away. 'Are you hurt?'

Still no answer. A few seconds passed before she shook her head.

'Are you hungry?'

She nodded, and glanced at the bowl of soup in his left hand. Her face was dirty and pale, her dress was torn and her hair looked greasy, making it very clear that there was nobody looking after her.

'Here, you can have this.' He smiled again when handing over his food. He could afford to skip dinner, even though he'd be hungry all night – this child needed to eat.

A family of five shuffled past him, and he glanced up at them. 'Monsieur?'

The father came to a halt and looked down, frowning. 'Are you talking to me?'

'Do you know this girl? Have you seen her parents?' he asked, making a head gesture towards the girl.

'No, sorry.'

And the man continued walking.

'Merde...' Enoch mumbled, running his fingers through his hair. So the girl really was alone. He stared at her as she consumed the food he'd given her, a small frown on his face. She was wearing a yellow star on her chest, just like the one he had, with one word embroidered on it, in big, black letters: " _Juif_ ".

He'd never really thought about how many Jews actually lived in Paris until every single of one of them started wearing those stars. They seemed to be everywhere, and suddenly he'd thought of something – wouldn't it be very hard to keep an eye on all of those people? It wasn't like he hadn't heard of what Hitler wanted to do with those "undesirables". It wasn't like he hadn't noticed the Germans in bars and on street corners, staring at him as he passed them by.

He'd just thought that they'd have to try really hard to just let the Jews of Paris _disappear_. There were thousands of them.

He'd been wrong.

As the girl kept drinking his soup, he looked at the people around him, packed together on the stands. Had they all been dragged out of their homes, too? Had they put up a fight, like he'd done? Or had they accepted their fate as soon as they'd seen the soldiers?

'What's your name, little one?' he asked as soon as he noticed that she'd finished eating, his voice calm and quiet. The girl stared at him for almost ten whole seconds, before finally opening her mouth to speak.

'Claire.'

Enoch smiled. 'Claire, my name is Enoch. Do you know anyone here?'

She shook her head.

'So you're all alone?'

She nodded.

Jesus Christ... He could hardly imagine how she ended up here.

'I'm also alone here.' He sat down in front of her, because his knees were starting to hurt, and took back the empty bowl. 'We could stick together.'

She nodded again.

Enoch studied her face, and suddenly realised she not only looked a bit thin, but her cheeks were glowing red, despite the fact that it was a rather chilly summer evening. He hesitated, before reaching out to her and carefully touching her cheek. The girl was burning hot... With a frown on his face, he pushed himself up.

'Claire, can you come with me?'

She looked up to him and didn't say a word.

'Merde,' he murmured again, glancing over his shoulder. The three tents in the centre of the Vélodrome, set up by the people of the Red Cross, weren't that far away... he wouldn't have any trouble carrying her.

'Claire, you'll have to trust me for a moment.' He squatted down in front of her to look her in the eyes. 'I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help, and you can't stay here on your own. Do you trust me?'

No answer.

'I'll take that as a yes,' he mumbled, before he picked up the girl without a single problem. If she really was sick, someone needed to take care of her.

With Claire on his left arm, and his right hand on her back to keep her from falling backwards, he made his way back to the infirmary, and was immediately approached by a female nurse with the star of David on her uniform. 'Everything alright, monsieur?'

'I believe she is sick.' Enoch came to a halt in front of her, a worried look on his face. 'She's really hot.'

'I'll have a look at her.' The nurse smiled and carefully held the little girl in her arms. 'Are you her family?'

'Uhm, no,' he answered. 'She doesn't have any family here.'

'Oh.' Her smile faded. 'But... Can I ask you to stay here to wait for her?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Merci, monsieur.' She smiled again, before turning away and disappearing into one of the tents, with Claire in her arms.

'Enoch?'

Enoch looked over his shoulder, to see how Horace came walking towards him. He looked exhausted, but started smiling as soon as they made eye contact.

'So... you do speak French.' This was the first thing he said when he stopped walking and grinned. Enoch managed to smile back at him, running his fingers through his hair. 'I do. I'm sorry for lying to you.'

'Don't worry about it.' The blonde nurse studied his face for a few seconds. 'How does your face feel?'

'Pretty good. If you don't touch the bruises, I hardly notice them.'

'That's good to hear. I still need to check that cut, though.'

Enoch just nodded. An infected wound didn't sound appealing, so he followed Horace and sat down in a chair placed against one of the tents when the boy gestured towards it.

'Why were you talking to that nurse?' Horace asked, sounding curious.

'Well, uhm... I found this little girl on the stands. No parents, no family.' He flinched ever so slightly when Horace slowly pulled the bandages from his skin. 'Didn't say a word to me besides her name, but I think she had a fever so I brought her here.'

'A very smart decision.' Horace was now looking at the cut on his cheek. 'We really need more doctors here... There are more than fifty volunteers outside but _they_ won't let them in.' His face grew dark. 'You can't take care of thousands of people like this. It's cruel.'

'So...' Enoch started slowly. 'You don't agree with all of this?'

'The arresting and detaining of Jews?' Horace glanced at him, and Enoch noticed how he suddenly looked almost scary. 'Of course not. I am a catholic but that doesn't mean I think people who practice other religions are in the wrong.'

Enoch smiled without any happiness or joy. 'If only more people had the same mindset.'

Both of them were silent for a moment, just like almost everything around them. It was now weirdly quiet in the stadium, especially after the pandemonium of noise from just hours before, but for some reason it was very calming.

'The cut doesn't look that bad,' Horace stated in a soft voice. 'It's not that deep and I think that, if you don't touch it, it's best to let it stay like this for tonight.'

'Great, thanks,' he answered, talking equally as quiet. Horace just smiled and sat down in an empty chair next to him.

Somewhere in the Vélodrome, a baby started crying. Seconds later, Enoch could hear a woman singing a Hebrew lullaby in an attempt to console her child, and after a while the crying stopped. The woman kept singing, however, and as they sat there Enoch just listened.

What was going to happen to him? Would he have any chance to contact his parents? Did he want to worry them?

Maybe he could escape. Maybe he could somehow sneak out and get back to London before they even noticed he was gone.

Deep inside he knew it wouldn't work. The whole place was loaded with soldiers, and since he'd punched one of them this afternoon they would keep an even closer eye on him.

The woman stopped singing, and the silence returned. Horace had got up from his chair, brushing his hair out of his face. 'I will see you another time. Good night, Enoch.' And with a last smile, he disappeared around the corner.


	3. Tous pour un, un pour tous

Enoch didn't sleep well that night. It was chilly in the open air, he hadn't had anything to eat and he was used to sleeping alone, so the presence of hundreds of people didn't help.  
Claire, the little blonde girl, had spent the night in the infirmary. The nurse had returned right after Horace had left with the announcement that she did have a fever, and it would be better to keep her here. So Enoch had returned to the stands and had tried to fall asleep on the wooden steps.  
Taking all that into account, it wasn't very strange that the young man wasn't exactly in a bright mood when waking up from a sleep that had been precisely two hours long, his neck aching and his stomach growling. He needed to eat; surely there would be people handing out food like yesterday.  
And there were.

Only not when he got down from his sleeping place to the lower part of the stadium.  
Apparently, there hadn't been much food to even begin with, and in less than 30 minutes it was gone, leaving the people from the Red Cross helpless and empty handed. When Enoch approached one of them, he was told that they'd tried to get more food inside, but that they just weren't allowed to.  
If he'd known how the situation would be he would've brought something... But now that he thought about it, he realised he never would've managed that. He was barely able to take some clothes with him.

'Hey.'  
He blinked until his eyes focussed again, and looked up. A young man in suspenders, with his star of David embroidered neatly on his chest, looked down on him. He wasn't exactly attractive, but his eyes were gleaming and his suntanned face was covered with freckles.

Enoch pushed himself up. As soon as he was standing upright, he noticed they were almost the same height, but the young man in front of him looked a lot stronger.

'Good morning.' He kept his voice reserved and his face expressionless, not knowing what the other wanted from him.

'Are you the man who punched a soldier in the face?'

'Yes,' he answered slowly, now getting a bit suspicious.

Suddenly, the young man grinned. 'Good job.'

Enoch raised his eyebrows, a smile slowly growing on his face. 'I – I guess so –'

'Victor Bruntley.' The other extended his hand. 'My sister and I are originally from Swansea, but we –'

'Hold on,' Enoch interrupted, and grinned when Victor's eyes grew wide as soon as he heard the English words come out of his mouth. 'Swansea?! My grandmother's from Cardiff.'

They shook each other's hands, grinning. 'Never thought I'd see a Londoner in Paris. What's your name?'

'Enoch O'Connor.'

'How did you end up here?'

'Well...' Enoch leaned against the wall behind him, folding his arms in front of his chest. 'I wanted to get away from home for a while, so I decided to get out of the country before starting my study.' He glanced at Victor. 'You?'

His smile slowly started to fade. 'My father used to have business partners here. My sister and I decided to come along last fall. Long story, I won't bore you with it.'

It was clear that he didn't want to talk about it, so Enoch didn't ask any follow-up questions but changed the subjects. 'How did you hear about me punching a soldier?'

'Oh, there is this family we know that saw it.' Victor glanced over his shoulder before looking back at Enoch. 'They said you got tackled immediately.'

'He had a gun,' Enoch answered in a defensive tone, and the young man in front of him started grinning again. 'Hey, I wasn't belittling you! I think it was brave.'

'And very stupid.'

'You said it yourself.'

Enoch grinned and shook his head. 'I –'

'Victor?'  
They both looked around. A girl with dark, braided hair approached them, looking a bit confused. Her face was almost identical to Victor's - they had the same, round eyes and a somewhat flat nose, only the girl lacked the generous amount of freckles. This could only be the sister he'd been talking about.  
'Wyn! This is Enoch, the man who punched that soldier.' Victor grinned, putting a hand on his sister's shoulder. 'Enoch, this is Bronwyn, my sister.'

'Yes, I see.' Enoch smiled politely at Bronwyn, whose frown had disappeared. 'You look pale. Did you have anything to eat?'

'To be honest, no,' he answered with a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. 'I gave my dinner to a child and I apparently missed breakfast.' He tried to pass it off a joke, but clearly failed as both Bronwyn and Victor glanced at each other without smiling.

'I have some bread left,' the girl told him. 'I was going to save it for later, but you should have it.'

'Oh, don't bother.' Enoch immediately regretted telling the siblings about how he hadn't eaten for 36 hours. 'Please, keep your food, I'll manage –'

'You should have it,' Bronwyn repeated, and suddenly she reminded him a bit of a concerned mother. 'You'll starve.'

'But I –'

'Just accept it, then she'll stop,' Victor said with a faint smile. 'None of us have enough to eat, but we should at least help each other.'

Enoch smiled back at him. 'Thank you, really. If I can do anything in return...'

'Don't mention it.' Bronwyn touched her brother's shoulder. 'I'll be right back, Vic. I'm going to get our things before someone steals them.'

As soon as the girl was out of earshot, Victor turned back to Enoch. 'So you don't know anyone here?'

Enoch shook his head. 'I have two Jewish friends, two brothers, but they disappeared with their family a week ago. I should've seen it as a sign.' He sighed before continuing. 'And I met this nurse who helped me after I got punched. He was surprisingly nice to me, but I guess that's just what nurses do.'

He shot a quick glance at the tents in the centre of the Vélodrome, but from this distance he couldn't make out any familiar faces. Then he looked back at Victor. 'And you?'

'Well, there's that family I mentioned,' Victor answered, gesturing towards the stands with his hand. 'Friends of my dad. Bronwyn knows some people.'

'And your father?' Enoch couldn't help himself. 'What, uhm – what happened to him?'

'Got shot.' The tone in which he said this sent a chill down Enoch's spine. Victor avoided his gaze and had pulled up his shoulders, staring at a point on the wall behind him. 'At one point he didn't come home after visiting his business partner and we eventually found his body in an empty cul-de-sac.'

'I – I am very sorry, I didn't –'

'You couldn't have known. Don't worry about it.' Victor just shrugged. 'And maybe it saved him from a more cruel death.'

'Maybe it did. I'm sorry for your loss.' He put a hand on his shoulder. 'But if you ask me, we're not going down without a fight.'

'That's something I like to hear,' Victor answered, a faint smile growing on his face. 'You're alright, Enoch. You should stick with us.'

'Thanks, Victor.'

The Welsh boy opened his mouth to respond, but an agonizing scream made the both of them look up in shock. Enoch quickly stepped past him before quickly walking down to the centre of the stadium to get a better look of what was going on, Victor right behind him. They managed to make their way to the of the small group of onlookers and now they could actually see what was happening.

Only seven meters away from them, a young couple stood apart from the rest. A young man with glasses had placed his hands on the shoulders of his pregnant wife, who was pale as a ghost and seemed to be both sweating and crying. A few meters in front of them, a pair of soldiers were talking quietly to each other, both with grave looks on their faces. After a few moments, they realised that they'd collected an audience, and the shortest of the two stepped towards the couple. The woman immediately backed away from him while the man started to yell. 'If you lay but _one_ finger on her you're going to regret it for the rest of your life, you bastard!'

The people who'd still been talking among themselves fell silent, staring at either the soldiers or the couple. Enoch could feel Victor shift beside him but didn't look around.

'She needs to get to the hospital.' The man was still speaking very loud, almost as if he wanted everyone to hear, and stepped towards the soldiers. 'You can't just keep her here, she needs a doctor.'

'Sir, there are doctors from the Red Cross who are perfectly qualified -'

'She's giving birth, for heaven's sake!' The man's voice almost cracked. 'How cruel do you have to be to let her stay here?!'

Enoch clenched his fists. This was exactly the kind of injustice that had caused him to punch the French soldier in the face, but this was a whole new level of denying people their rights. One look at the woman made it very clear that she needed medical help; two of the onlookers had rushed forward to keep her standing, but that just wasn't enough.

He needed to do something.

So he stepped forward, walked towards the man with the glasses and placed a hand on his shoulder. The other looked around at him, furious and red in the face, and sneered: 'What?!'

'Please, monsieur,' Enoch said quietly, a stern tone in his voice. 'Try to calm down. I don't agree with all of this either – none of us do – but this is only going to make things worse for you and your wife.'

'Who do you think you are?!' The man pulled his arm away from him. 'Leave me alone!'

'I'm serious, monsieur – I'm just trying to –' Enoch started, but didn't get to finish his sentence as one of the soldiers stepped forward.

'Young man, please try to mind your own business,' he said. 'This has nothing to do –'

'There are thousands of people in this stadium and you're denying all of us good medical help. So yes, I think this has something to do with us.'

Enoch looked around, to see how Victor came to a halt behind him. He looked straight at the soldier, who was visibly a bit intimidated by this tall, muscular young man.

'Take the poor woman to a hospital. What would be a worse story to tell your superior: that you let her leave to see a professional or that she died giving birth because you refused to?'

Trying hard not to show how impressed he was by what Victor had just said, Enoch looked back at the soldier, waiting for a response.

'Are you two going to leave on your own or do you need to be removed?'

It was the second man who'd said this. He was taller than his colleague and a lot more intimidating; he seemed to have some kind of authority, or at least that's what it looked like. He stared at Enoch and Victor with an almost menacing glare.

'We just –' Victor started, but yet another voice cut him off.

'What is happening here?!'

They all looked around. From between the tents a short distance away, a man in a white coat had started to approach them – one of the doctors. He looked both frustrated and concerned and when he came to a stop in front of the soldiers he repeated his question: 'What is happening here?'

Enoch suddenly noticed that there was someone standing behind the doctor: a slender boy with blonde hair and bright green eyes.

As soon as their eyes met, Horace smiled at him and Enoch smiled back, until the both of them remembered the situation they were a part of. They quickly looked away again.

'And who might you be?' The officer turned towards the doctor, his head raised.

'Doctor Alain Somnusson.'

So this was Horace's father. Enoch studied his face but the two of them didn't look much alike – the man in front of him was broad and muscular, had a round, somewhat blushing face and darker hair. His eyes were brown instead of green, but still had the same kindness as his son's.

'She needs to go to a hospital.' The voice of the doctor made Enoch focus again. 'This place isn't sanitary enough to let her give birth here, it's not ethical –'

'I have my orders, doctor.' The officer didn't move a muscle as Horace's father stepped towards him. 'Every single Jew is to stay here.'

'Enoch?'

Enoch looked around. Horace stood next to him and gently touched his arm. 'I need your help. And your friend's.'

'Yes, of course,' Enoch answered immediately, glancing at Victor. 'What can we do?'

'We need to get that woman to one of the tents.' He made a gesturing movement with his head. 'She needs to lay down.'

Completely forgetting the argument between the two authority figures, both Enoch and Victor followed Horace to the couple standing a few meters away. The man was trying to comfort his crying wife as they approached and looked up with a desperate look in his eyes.

'Madam,' Horace said gently as he addressed the woman, 'we are going to bring you to the infirmary, alright? You can lay down there, and we can help you. It's not that far from here.'

The woman just sniffled, barely able to speak.

'We'll take her,' Enoch mumbled, carefully pulling one of her arms over his shoulders. As soon as he made eye contact with Victor he made a gesturing motion with his head to indicate that he should do the same. Meanwhile, Horace had started to talk to the man, who'd seemed to have forgotten about his anger towards Enoch and was visibly trembling.

Once the two of them had reached the infirmary and managed to place the woman on one of the hospital beds, Horace shooed them out of the tent. 'Go, you are not supposed to be here.'

'Well, it wasn't like I wanted to be present,' Victor mumbled as soon as the blonde nurse had left, wiping his forehead, and Enoch smiled faintly. 'No, me neither.'

'Monsieur?'

Enoch turned around. The same nurse who'd taken Claire from him the night before was walking towards them with a bundle of laundry in her arms and a smile on her face.

'Monsieur, you remember the girl you brought here yesterday?'

'Yes, I do,' he answered, putting his hands into his pockets. 'Her name is Claire. What's with her?'

'She had a good night of sleep. She probably needs to stay here for another day but after that she'll be fine.'

'Good, good, thank you...' Enoch sounded a bit absentminded and stared straight ahead as the nurse continued walking, only to be pulled back to reality when Victor said his name.

'I thought you didn't know anyone here?'

'I don't,' Enoch answered with a sigh. 'She's just a girl – I found her alone yesterday evening and she seemed sick so I brought her here. I have no idea how to take care of children.'

'You _found_ her? Without her parents, you mean?'

'Yes, I – can we get away from here?' They were still standing in the middle of the infirmary and the sounds that came from inside the tents made him uncomfortable and unable to focus.

'Sure thing,' Victor answered calmly, and with something of embarrassment Enoch realised he looked worried as their eyes met. 'Let's go.'

As soon as they'd left the infirmary behind, Enoch heard someone scream Victor's name. Running footsteps approached them and seconds later Bronwyn appeared, swinging her arms around her brother's neck.

'Lord, Vic, don't just disappear like that... I heard what was going on and when I couldn't find you –'

'Relax, Wyn. I wouldn't go anywhere without letting you know.'

Enoch watched them from a distance with both hands in his pockets and a feeling of jealousy slowly growing in his chest. Victor and Bronwyn still had each other, despite everything they'd gone through. They would die for their sibling if it meant the other could live and would stay with each other until the end. They still had something of hope, something to hold on to.

Meanwhile, all things he cared about – family, home, friends – were hundreds of kilometres away. If he died this week – and suddenly this idea didn't even seem so unlikely – it would take probably another few weeks for his parents to find out. None of the people he loved had a single clue of what was happening to him right now. He didn't have _anything_ here.

As he turned his back on the two siblings, read to return to the stands, something else caught his eye – or rather, someone else.

Horace almost ran into him but managed to stop just in time before hurting either himself or Enoch. He looked sweaty and with a shock Enoch noticed the blood on his hands.

'Good God, Horace, what –'

'I – I wasn't allowed to be present.' Horace's voice sounded unsteady and he didn't meet Enoch's eye. 'I was hindering my father, I couldn't – I just – I –'

'Woah there, easy,' Enoch cut him off, putting a hand on his arm. 'Are you alright?'

Horace seemed to be trembling. His hands were clasped together and his eyes were bigger than usual as they he stared at some point below Enoch's shoulder.

'Are you alright?' Enoch repeated. His frown grew deeper and he was starting to feel worried – what had happened? 'Horace, you should sit down.' He took the blonde boy by the arm. 'Come on.'

He sat Horace down on the steps that lead up to the stands, squatting down in front of him and carefully taking his hands, not paying attention to the dried blood under his nails.

'Just breathe,' he said softly, trying to look Horace in the eye. 'Just breathe. Calm down, and try to tell me what happened.'

Finally, Horace looked like he was regaining self control. The boy inhaled slowly, his hands still trembling, and eventually raised his head to look at Enoch. His eyes were a bit watery. Enoch just smiled at him, his hands loosely around his wrists. 'Are you alright?'

'Yes, yes, I just – sorry.' Horace let out a trembling sigh. 'It's just – it's just too much.'

Enoch's smile faded away. His stomach suddenly felt like it was tied in knots and his expression grew serious.

'I know. I understand. You shouldn't even be here in the first place.'

Horace glanced at him. 'That is ridiculous. I belong here, with my father. I have to help these people.'

'You belong in a stadium full of locked up Jews?' Enoch made a scoffing sound. ' _That_ is ridiculous. You should be cleaning the halls of _Hôpital Beaujon_ , not watching a woman give birth on a packed bicycle racing track.'

'I'm just trying to help.' Horace slowly pulled his hands away as he spoke and Enoch noticed he was frowning. 'I want to do something, not just sit at home and watch all of this happen.' He glanced up. He looked pale and still a little shocked, but now his eyes were dry. 'If I can't fight I want to do everything in my power to keep these people alive as long as possible.'

Enoch stayed silent, lowering his head and staring at his hands. The hundreds of voices around him made it hard to concentrate and think clearly, and for a few moments his vision became blurry.

'Enoch?'

'Hm?' He didn't raise his head but just made a little sound to let Horace know he'd heard him.

'Don't lose hope.'

Enoch's vision became clear again the moment he could feel how Horace gently touched his fingers, and he slowly looked up. Horace gave him a faint smile as their eyes met. 'Don't give up fighting, alright?'

'What, you want me to punch another soldier?' Enoch answered sarcastically. He couldn't help it. The whole situation just seemed hopeless. He didn't see how he was going to get out of this unharmed, unless some kind of miracle happened.

'I mean it, Enoch. I'm serious. You don't know what will happen.'

'And that's supposed to make me feel better?! You don't know what you're talking about!' Enoch got up to his feet and glared down at him. 'You're not locked up in here! At least _your_ parents know where you are! At least you don't have to be afraid that your family gets shot because they set a foot out of their homes!'

Horace had turned pale and was visibly trembling again, but at that moment Enoch didn't care. The boy didn't understand. He didn't know what it was like and he never would.

The nurse opened his mouth as if to say something, but when no sound came out he shut it again and got up as well. Enoch stepped back but didn't say anything either – didn't apologize, didn't comfort him. Deep inside he knew that he should, but anger had taken the upper hand.

'I – I'll go,' Horace mumbled, avoiding Enoch's eyes. 'I – I'm sorry –'

And before either of them said anything else he quickly walked back towards the tents.

'Shit.'

Enoch sank onto the steps, pressing his hands against his closed eyelids. It would be a miracle if he ever got out of here.


	4. Avise la fin

Another day passed, even warmer than the one before. People were starting to get nervous – how long were they going to have to stay here? And what would happen after this?

Enoch was sure he would've gone completely mad if it hadn't been for Victor and Bronwyn. The sibling somehow managed to crack a joke every once in a while, Bronwyn knew a few songs by heart and Victor explained to him how to play poker – which was a bit confusing since they didn't have any playing cards.

Even better; Claire's fever was gone. She hadn't said much after she'd left the infirmary but it seemed to him that she didn't mind having him around – she crawled onto his lap whenever Victor was telling stories or held his hand whenever he went somewhere. They'd decided on speaking in French when she was around in an attempt to make her feel more comfortable, and it seemed to be working.

He hadn't talked to or even seen Horace for the last two days, and he was starting to regret the fact that he'd yelled at him. Horace hadn't deserved it – he'd helped Enoch and the only thing he'd wanted to do was to let him know there was still hope. And even though Enoch was very sceptical – or, as he preferred to call it, "realistic" – about the whole situation, he should've at least appreciated his effort.

But when he'd walked by the infirmary to try and catch a glimpse of the blonde boy he was nowhere to be seen; something that made his guilt even bigger.

And so another two days went by, two days of boredom and an anxious feeling that never really went away, even in sleep. Because then, when everything went quiet, the people in Vélodrome were left alone with their thoughts and in the dark their seemingly unavoidable doom seemed to be closer than ever.

They weren't wrong.

Enoch and Victor were one of the first people to wake up that morning. Claire had fallen asleep with her head on Enoch's lap, Victor's jacket draped around her shoulders, so he was trying his best not to move or speak to loud.

This effort was immediately lost when the stadium was suddenly filled with loud voices.

Victor stopped talking. The two of them exchanged concerned glances before the muscular young man stood up. Enoch couldn't see what was happening in the centre of the stadium, so he glanced up at his friend and asked quietly: 'What's going on?'

Victor frowned, his eyes still on whatever was going on. It was hard to understand what the voices were saying but they were not the only ones who'd heard them.

'Soldiers.' Victor shot a quick glance at Enoch. 'Far more than usual. Something is going to happen.'

Claire slowly lifter her head off his lap and Victor's jacket fell off her as she sat upright, rubbing her eyes and yawning. 'Enoch… What is happening?'

'Nothing, Claire,' he said automatically, picking up the jacket from the dirty ground. 'Or at least I think so…'

Bronwyn had opened her eyes as well and now stood next to her brother, more worried than Enoch had seen her during the last few days. Carefully, he lifted Claire off the ground so the girl could sit on his arm, and he looked down at the centre of the Vélodrome.

About thirty soldiers had gathered around the entrance and were all talking to each other, leaning on their guns and their hats under their arms. It seemed as if they were waiting for something, or someone.

'Why do you think they're here?' Victor asked, still staring at the soldiers.

'I don't think anyone really knows for sure,' Enoch mumbled. 'But I don't think we're going to like it.'

It didn't take long before every single person in the stadium was awake, and the voices of the soldiers were drowned out by those of the thousands of Jews.

'Good God.' When Victor spoke again, his voice sounded a little shaky. 'I think – I think they're going to let us out of here.'

This might've sounded like a positive thing, but Enoch knew it wasn't. They weren't just going to let them go, especially not after going through so much trouble.

He could see a few nurses talking among themselves, shooting nervous glances at the soldiers. A few seconds later he recognized Alain Somnusson and after that his son, a few meters behind him. It seemed like they didn't have a single clue about what was going on either, but from this distance it was impossible to hear what they were discussing or even read their lips.

'We have to make sure we stay together.' Bronwyn carefully placed a hand on Claire's back. 'Whatever is going to happen.'

'Yes, I know.' Enoch looked at her, a stern look in his eyes. Claire had wrapped her arms around his neck and as he held her close he glanced at the people around him. Most of them had gotten up as well, talking to friends and families in nervous whispers. They knew something was going to happen.

And it didn't take long before they found out what this "something" was.

Because only an hour later, the soldiers split up, dividing themselves over the stands. Next to Enoch, Bronwyn looked a little pale as she grabbed her brother's arm.

'It's going to be okay, Wyn.' Enoch could hear how Victor murmured this to his sister but even though he desperately wanted it to be true, he knew it wasn't.

'Victor and Bronwyn Bruntley?' The three of them looked around at the same time. Instinctively, Enoch pulled Claire even closer and Victor stepped past him, towards the armed soldier. 'Yes?'

'Down to the entrance.' He nodded to the steps that led down to the centre of the stadium. 'Now.'

'But –'

'Does it look like I want to argue about this? Go!'

Enoch's mind went completely blank. 'Wait, hold on – I need to come with them –'

'No, you don't.' The soldier stepped towards him, gripping his gun. 'you go down once one of us tells you, understood?'

Enoch pressed his lips together and stayed silent. He refused to give the man the satisfaction of an obeying answer.

'Stay safe, Enoch,' Bronwyn whispered, right before pressing a kiss on his cheek. He and Victor only exchanged worried glances, before the siblings reached the steps and disappeared out of sight.

'Where are they going?' Enoch asked. 'What are you –'

But the soldier was already out of earshot, leaving a frustrated Enoch behind. He wasn't just going to let this happen. As soon as possible, he made his way to the steps as well. He made sure Claire wouldn't fall p the only reason he didn't put her down was because he was afraid he'd lose her.

'Enoch!'

It only took him a few minutes to find them again, which was impressive since the crowd in the centre of the stadium was gigantic. As soon as he and Bronwyn locked eyes, the girl made her way towards him and took Claire out of his arms. She was surprisingly strong and didn't have any problems with carrying her.

'I thought they wouldn't let you come with us...'

'I wasn't going to let them separate us. We have to stay together.'

Victor placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a grim smile. 'Glad you're here, Enoch.'

'Yeah, me too.' He sounded a little breathless and he took a few seconds to regain control over himself. 'Any idea where –'

'Hey, you!'

Enoch turned around and froze as if he'd been nailed to the ground. The soldier that had ordered him to stay had noticed him and was pushing people aside to get to him.

'Shit,' he mumbled, automatically stepping backwards right before realising that there was nowhere to go. The soldier was still walking towards him, an almost menacing look on his face. Only a few meters and he would reach him, grab him, drag him away and –

'Monsieur?'

Enoch pressed his eyes shut before opening them again, just to make sure what he saw was real.

Horace had cut the soldier off just in time and prevented him from getting to Enoch. 'Monsieur, I need your help. If you could come with me?'

And he led the soldier, who was too bewildered to react, away from Enoch. Just before he disappeared out of sight, however, their eyes met, and Horace smiled.

'My God...' Behind him, Victor let out a deep sigh. 'Who was that?'

'I...' Enoch finally got himself to move again, but kept staring at the place where Horace had disappeared. 'It – it doesn't matter.'

It did matter, of course. Horace stepped in just in time, and he didn't want to know what would've happened if he hadn't.

Why had he done that? The last time they'd spoken, Enoch had yelled at him and he still felt guilty about it since he still hadn't gotten the chance to apologize.

And how he never would.

Because only minutes later, they were ordered to leave the stadium, while the soldiers prevented them from disobeying or sneaking away.

Bronwyn, who was still carrying Claire, looked at her brother, who was staring straight ahead, and then at Enoch. 'Where are they taking us?'

Neither of them answered her question, but they didn't have to wait long to find out.

As soon as they heard the sound of a train slowly coming to a halt Enoch realised where they were and what was going to happen.

'Please don't push each other, people! There's room for everyone!' he could hear a man yell. He highly doubted that this would be the case, but since there was no time to argue about anything he quietly followed Victor into one of the carriages. They definitely weren't meant for passengers, but for luggage or animals – which seemed ironically enough very appropriate.

When Bronwyn lifted Claire up towards him he took the girl into his arms. If he needed to, he would carry her until they'd reached their destination.

So this was how he would travel to his death. By train, with almost thirty other people in a closed off, small space. Everyone seemed to hold their breath as the doors were closed.


	5. D'abord, ne pas nuire

Drancy, being a suburb of Paris only ten kilometres away, was just as warm and sunny. The group had to walk another 2 kilometres, guided by the same soldiers that had brought them to the train, in the burning afternoon sun. Victor had taken off his sweater and had wrapped it around his waist before rolling up the sleeves of his blouse. Enoch, who'd been carrying Claire, had finally set her down so the girl could walk on her own – they weren't moving fast and was long as she didn't let go of his hand she wouldn't get lost. Bronwyn was carrying her jacket and her brown hair was tied up in a messy bun.

Normally, the road they followed would've been perfect for a casual Sunday stroll. Now, nobody dared to think about what might be at the end of it.

When the sun reached her highest point, the prisoners finally reached their destination. The internment camp of Drancy lay silent and dark in the sun, the brown roofs of the building reflecting the bright light as they walked up to the fence and slowly came to a halt.

With a screeching sound that gave Enoch goose bumps, the gateway opened. Step by step they entered, looking around at the buildings and the dozens of soldiers around them. Everybody seemed too scared, too nervous to talk.

'Hey. You there.'

Enoch stopped walking and turned around.

A tall soldier approached them, a gun in his hands, with which he gestured towards Claire, but looked at Enoch. 'She your sister?'

'Yes.' Enoch squeezed Claire's hand and glared at the soldier. 'She's with me.'

'That may be so, but she's not going to stay with you.'

As the soldier stepped forwards, Enoch suddenly noticed that angry, unbelievable voices could be heard everywhere around him.

'She's seven!' Enoch fired back, trying to make himself taller. Claire was quickly pulled back by Victor, away from the soldier. 'And she's going to stay with me because I'm the only family she still has left!'

'That's cute. I don't care.' The soldier frowned down at him. 'I have my orders. So please step aside.'

'No.' Enoch clenched his fists. 'She's staying with us. Get lost.'

'Did you not hear what I said?!' It was very clear that the man in front of him was losing his patience. 'Children are to be separated from the rest and if you don't step aside right now you're going to feel the consequences!'

Enoch barely had any control over what happened next. He raised his fist, ready to hit the soldier, but Victor pulled him back as he yelled: 'Enoch, don't!'

He almost fell over, tripping over his own feet, but Victor caught him just in time before he fell on the ground.

'No, he can't take her, he can't –' Enoch stammered, turning around and brushing his hair out of his eyes. 'Claire –'

The soldier pushed the blonde girl away from them, towards a growing group of young children. All around him he could hear parents yelling, screaming and crying, and for a moment he was going to collapse, but Victor's strong arms prevented him from falling – and also from running after the soldier.

'Enoch, please,' Bronwyn begged quietly, turning towards him and her brother. 'Don't do this, you're only making this worse –'

'He can't take Claire, he can't, she needs to stay with me...' Enoch didn't have the power to fight Victor and when the young man let go of him he just stood there, defeated.

As the group of children was led away, Claire looked around and made eye contact with him. She smiled and waved, but just before Enoch could do the same she turned a corner.

'We'll see her again,' Victor mumbled behind him. 'They can't just –'

' – am a doctor, good man! Then I took my oath I swore to give aid to every person that needed it and I don't see why I shouldn't take care of these people!'

'Is that...' Victor whispered, looking around.

Alain Somnusson, in a long brown coat and his hat in his hand, was gesturing towards the thousands of people behind him. The man who he was speaking to had his back turned towards them, but it was clear he held some kind of position of authority. It was only because they stood a few meters away from him, otherwise they probably couldn't have heard a word from his angry outburst.

'Me and my son didn't come with them so we could sit back and watch them die from fevers and illness! They are people, not animals!'

'Jews and animals are the same to me.' The cold voice of the officer sent chills down Enoch's spine. 'They are to be disposed of. I don't care how that happens.'

'You're a monster.' Doctor Somnusson's voice was trembling from anger. 'You're the animal here, and the last person who should be in charge.'

'Well, I don't make the rules,' the officer answered sarcastically, and wanted to turn away but then came to a halt. 'You, your son and your assistants can stay.'

"Your son". Enoch frowned ever so slightly. Horace was here, too. Why the hell would he agree to come along with his father? Didn't he know how it would be here?

They were to be divided over the barracks, that became clear after another officer raised his voice. Bronwyn was rather violently separated from them, pulled away from her brother who lost his temper in a fraction of a second.

Just as he was trying to calm Victor down, Enoch caught a glimpse of Horace and his father in the crowd.

'Victor, I... I'll be back in a moment, I just –'

He _needed_ to speak to Horace. If not now, then maybe not ever.

'Enoch!' As soon as Horace caught sight of him a surprised smile appeared on his face. 'What –'

'Horace. I don't have much time so please listen to me.' He could feel doctor Somnusson staring at him but didn't pay attention to the man. He just placed both hands on Horace's shoulders and looked him in the eye. 'I wanted to apologize for the last time we spoke. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry.'

'Enoch –' Horace's smile had faded away. 'I – it's alright, Enoch, I understand –'

'The fact that you understand doesn't make it alright. But I also have a question: what the hell are you doing here?'

For a few moments, Horace just stared at him, and when he opened his mouth he was interrupted by his father.

'Horace, who is this man?'

'Don't worry, papa,' Horace said, turning his head towards him. 'He's a friend.'

A friend. Enoch frowned, looking at the smaller boy in front of him. Being friends was not going to end well for either of them.

Doctor Somnusson seemed to be thinking the same. He looked at Enoch with a worried look on his face, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. 'I apologize, but this isn't really the appropriate time for a friendly conversation.'

'I agree.' Enoch's insides turned cold as he recognized the voice of the officer. He turned, and had to raise his head to look the man in the eye.

'Jew. Why aren't you in your assigned barrack?'

'I needed a word with the doctor. Sir.' He clenched his fists and tried not to sound too angry.

'Did you not know you are not allowed to speak to them?' the man asked coldly.

'I did not.' With his arms behind his back, Enoch kept looking at him.

'Then I advise you to leave, right now. Next time I will not be this tolerant.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,' he replied, trying hard to keep the snark out of his voice. He glanced for one last time at Horace, who still stood next to him and stared at him with worry in his eyes, before he stepped past the officer. He didn't stop walking until he'd reached the barracks and had found Victor, who pulled him inside one of the buildings.

'Wyn's barrack is the next to ours,' the young man mumbled as the two of them kept walking past the people already inside. There were dozens of bunk beds and definitely not enough room for this much people, but Enoch knew he wasn't in a position to complain about it. He just threw his small bundle of possessions on the top bed as Victor continued: 'It's bullshit that they should separate us. Look, there are women in here!'

He gestured, and Enoch glanced over his shoulder. Victor was right: there were women everywhere. Old, elderly women, pregnant women, young women, between dozens of men. But Bronwyn wasn't one of them.

'Bullshit, that's what it is,' Victor mumbled. 'Absolute bullshit.'


	6. Si Dieu nous delivre

It had been almost a week since they'd come to Drancy and Enoch felt like he was going mad. The only thing that had kept him sane all this time where the calm, aiding word of Bronwyn whenever she was with them, and the thought of returning home.

And also, for some reason, the sight of the blonde male nurse who walked past their barrack from time to time.

It was impossible to immediately fall asleep at night. People cried, snored, talked, laughed, and during those hours his brain slowly trailed off and was involuntarily filled with thoughts of Horace.

And it was incredibly frustrating.

Because why would he be thinking of him? Horace didn't mean anything to him – he was just someone he knew. Why did these thought still come to him when it was late at night and there was nothing to distract him from them? Why did his heart skip a beat whenever he caught a glimpse of the blonde boy walking through the camp?

It wasn't because of that, however, that he'd punched a soldier in the throat. That was just because the man had tried to kick Claire.

But now he was sitting on a wooden stool with a black eye, a bleeding scratch on his cheek and dozens of bruises all over his upper body.

'Next time they will kill you, Enoch.'

The look of worry on Horace's face didn't go unnoticed, but Enoch acted like he didn't see it.

'I'm serious. Look at me.' Horace placed a hand under his chin and gently turned his head in his direction. 'They will kill you if you keep doing stupid things like this.'

'And why would you care?'

'First of all, because I am a decent human being. Sit still.' Horace carefully pressed a cloth with disinfectant against Enoch's cheek, and he flinched. 'Second of all, I'm a nurse and once I've helped someone I usually don't want them to return. And last of all...' He looked Enoch in the eyes. 'Like it or not, I care about you.'

Why were his cheeks suddenly getting warm?!

Enoch quickly averted his gaze to look at his lap, blushing heavily. 'You shouldn't.'

'And why not?'

Were his ears fooling him or did he actually hear amusement in Horace's voice?

He looked up, his cheeks still red. 'Because all of us here are going to die and you healing our sickness and wounds isn't going to prevent that from happening.'

Horace let out a deep sigh. His green eyes moves down toward the lower half of his face for just a few moments, before they made eye contact again.

'Enoch, I...'

He suddenly realised how close they were standing to each other. Horace looked down on him as Enoch didn't move from the wooden stool he was sitting on, having to raise his head to look him in the eye. The young nurse had lowered both his hands and was just standing there without saying a word.

Enoch broke his gaze to look down for just a fraction of a second. Horace's lips were a light shade of pink, thin and soft and –

'Horace!'

He immediately looked down at his hands when the loud voice filled the air around them and doctor Somnusson came their way.

'What are you doing? Why aren't you with me?'

'But papa, he's hurt –' Horace started, and Enoch suddenly noticed he'd stepped away from him. 'He's bleeding, papa, I just –'

'It will heal.' The man didn't even glance at Enoch. 'I need all the help I can get.'

'But –'

'Come with me. Now.'

Horace looked at Enoch, mouthed the words _"I'm so sorry"_ and seemed to hesitate. Then he pushed the cloth in his hands, turned around and followed his father.

It wasn't until Horace had completely disappeared out of sight that Enoch realised he'd put something inside of the cloth – a cord with the enamelled image of Virgin Mary.

Mary had no importance in Enoch's religion, but he still brought the image up to his lips and gently kissed it, closing his eyes.

He would probably never come closer to kissing the blonde boy than this.


	7. Souviens-toi, que tu vas mourir

'Enoch! Come outside!'

The first thing Enoch saw when he looked up was Claire running towards him, a bright smile on her face. As soon as she'd reached him she grabbed his hand and pulled him off his bed. 'Come!'

'What's happening?' He smiled despite being a little surprised – he'd never seen her this enthusiastic.

'Just come! Hurry!'

It was still sunny but less warm outside. Not that far away he could see people sitting on one of the wooden tables and on the benches around it, and for a moment he thought his ears were fooling him.

He could hear _music._

'Claire, what's –'

'Enoch! Finally!'

Bronwyn ran toward him and grabbed his hands. 'You can dance, can you?'

He could see Victor sitting on a table with what looked like a small guitar in his hands and almost laughed in utter astonishment. 'How did you get that?!'

There were no guards around, which was weird and honestly a bit alarming, but apparently these people didn't care.

'Can you dance, Enoch?' Bronwyn asked again as she pulled him with her, and Enoch stuttered: 'Not – not really, no, I never –'

'Doesn't matter.' As she turned around she smiled at him. 'Just follow my lead and you'll be alright.'

A woman had started a quick, Hebrew song and soon they weren't the only ones dancing – Enoch completely forgot about the fact that there might be guards around and he got completely lost in the moment.

He almost tripped over his feet when the song ended and Bronwyn caught him just in time before he fell on the ground. They held on to each other, laughing until they couldn't breathe and they had to sit down next to Victor, who was grinning.

After a few moments of silence, Enoch turned his head towards his friend and nodded at the instrument. 'How the hell did you get that? Is it yours?'

'No, of course not,' Victor chuckled. 'I borrowed it from one of the men in Bronwyn's barrack, but I can play it.'

'And why aren't guards doing anything?' He quickly looked around, but as far as he could see, there weren't any soldiers nearby. 'I thought we weren't allowed to have fun?'

'Well, Vic thought we should risk it,' Bronwyn answered, pulling Claire up from the ground and setting her down on her lap. 'And I think they were too tired to stop us.'

Enoch started to smile. The fact that none of the guards had decided to stop any of them – and still weren't doing anything, since one of the women was still singing as they spoke – gave him hope. Those Germans weren't going to keep them down.

They sat there in silence, and after a few minutes Claire got up to play with the other children.

'Do you think someone will come to help us?'

Bronwyn had asked this question in a quiet, hesitant tone, and both boys were silent for almost thirty seconds before Victor answered her.

'They will, I'm sure of it. most people here think the war will be over by the end of the year.'

'But that's still months away, Victor.' Bronwyn looked up to her brother. 'Who knows what will happen.'

'I'm sure they will come,' Victor said, a little louder this time. None of them knew who "they" were, but Enoch nodded in agreement. They would come, and they would help them out of their misery.

After dinner, the group that gathered around the wooden tables and benches seemed to be even bigger than before. This meant they were also making a lot more noise.

And this lead to them not noticing the officer until it was too late.

The instrument was roughly pulled out of the man's hand and the singing suddenly stopped. Enoch, who'd been sitting with Bronwyn and Claire, looked around, alarmed by the sudden silence.

'Is this yours?' The officer stared down at the man in front of him. 'Do you know you are not allowed to have this?'

'But sir, we have been making music for hours now,' the man started, panic growing in his voice as he spoke. 'And none of the guards said a thing, so we thought –'

'You thought wrong.' The officer's cold voice sent chills down Enoch's spine. He and Bronwyn exchanged worried glances – something was going to happen.

Meanwhile Victor had gotten up from his place and stepped towards the two men. Bronwyn noticed this just a second too late. 'Victor, don't –'

'There is still time before we have to be inside, sir.' Victor's voice was calm and when the officer turned around to look at him Enoch could see him smiling.

'We were never told that we weren't allowed to make music. So please, sir, if we could just get that back you can have it after 8 o'clock.'

The silence that fell didn't seem like a good omen at all, but Victor clearly wasn't bothered by it.

When the officer spoke again, his voice was low and quiet, almost menacing. Everyone around him held their breath.

'Do you think I am to be negotiated with?'

Victor raised his eyebrows. 'Well... I thought...'

'You should probably stop thinking. It will only cause you trouble. Now, shut your mouth.'

Enoch glanced at Victor. He knew the boy was very patient, but for how long would he keep that up?

'But sir, if you just –' Victor stepped towards the officer when the man turned around to walk away and reached for his shoulder.

Which was a very bad decision.

What happened next all went too quick to completely follow, but it went something like this.

The officer had grabbed his gun and turned back at the same time, dropping the object he'd had in his hands. Everyone immediately stepped backward – everyone but Victor.

Next to him, Enoch could hear Bronwyn whimpering. He grabbed her hand and pulled her close, keeping both eyes on the officer.

The gun was pointed at Victor's chest. Everyone else had moved to the side, but the young man just stood there. 'Sir, I just –'

'Shut up!' the man yelled, stepping forward. Victor didn't even flinch. 'Get on your knees!'

For one terrifying moment, Enoch thought Victor wasn't going to obey this order – he wasn't going to kneel and the officer would –

But five seconds later the young man slowly kneeled, his hands resting on his legs and his eyes not moving from the officer's face.

It was eerily quiet in the moments that followed and the tension was almost visible in the air.

Then the man lifted his weapon and hit the boy in front of him in the face with the barrel of his gun.

Victor didn't scream, but Enoch did. With an angry yell he stepped forwards with his hands clenched into fists, only to be pulled back by Bronwyn. If she hadn't used all of her strength he wouldn't have hesitated to attack the officer.

The man didn't even glance at him. He kept staring down at Victor, eyes full of rage. The boy had lowered his head.

'Look at me, Jew!'

Slowly, he looked up.

A woman screamed when the officer hit him in the face a second time, leaving a deep cut on his cheek. He placed his boot on his chest, pushed him backwards and kicked him under his ribcage, causing the young man to double over, gasping for air.

The man stepped backwards, breathing heavily, and looked up to the people surrounding him. 'Let this be a lesson for all of you.'

He turned around and walked away.

'Victor! _Victor!'_

Bronwyn finally let go of Enoch and ran towards her brother. She fell down on her knees next to him and took his head in his hands, placing him on his back before she brushed his hair out of his face. Tears were running down her face. 'Victor...'

The young man opened his eyes. It took him a few seconds to focus, before a weary smile appeared on his face. 'Hey, Wyn...'

'You're an idiot, Victor.' Enoch carefully sat down opposite of Bronwyn and looked at his friend, trying to hide his worry. 'You know how those men are...'

'It has never stopped you from being a cheeky bastard,' Victor answered, and Enoch almost laughed, but Bronwyn's teary eyes stopped him. He sighed, shook his head and answered: 'Someone needs to clean that wound. We need to get a nurse.'

'I'm a nurse.' A woman stepped forwards. Her face was pale but her voice sounded determined. Enoch glared at her. 'We need a nurse with actual equipment.'

He ignored the mumbling from people around him and tried to get Victor back up to his feet again with Bronwyn's help. 'Come on, let's get some help.'


	8. Cité de la Muette

It wasn't until the next morning that one of the actual nurses could look at Victor's wounds. They were surprised they could actually find someone, as there were only a few nurses, one doctor and thousands of Jews. It only being "just a scratch" didn't stop Bronwyn from forcing her brother to go to the infirmary, and after being separated from coughing children, crying men and whimpering women there'd been someone who'd been willing to cover up his cuts and bruises – the same nurse who'd cared for Claire back in Paris, a young woman with a bright smile and gentle eyes. Bronwyn and Enoch were sent outside, to prevent them from getting sick.

'There was a couple who committed suicide in barrack three yesterday.'

The two of them were leaning against the building as they waited for Victor, and the tone in which Bronwyn had said this almost scared Enoch. He didn't reply, however – how should you reply to news like that? People he didn't know had killed themselves and of course it was tragic but it wasn't like it hadn't happened before; just two days ago, a man in their barrack had somehow managed to strangle himself. Long story short, it hadn't been a pretty sight.

So Enoch didn't answer. Instead, he looked down at his feet.

Maybe killing himself before the Nazis got around to it would be a better way to go.

'Enoch? What are you doing here?'

He immediately looked up.

The familiar face of the blonde nurse definitely was a sight for sore eyes.

'Horace, I...' He shot a glance at Bronwyn. 'My friend Victor is inside, we're waiting for him.'

'Enoch?' He could feel Bronwyn looking at him despite the fact he now only had eyes for Horace. 'Do you know him?'

'Yes, I do.' It took some willpower to turn his head back to the girl – for some reason Horace kept smiling and he had this weird look in his eyes, almost enchanting –

'Ehm, Bronwyn, this is Horace.' He cleared his throat. 'Horace, Bronwyn. She's a friend.'

Horace extended a hand and she carefully shook it. 'Nice to meet you.'

'The pleasure is all mine.' He smiled politely. 'But I should go. I apologize, but my father is waiting for me. I wish your friend the best of luck.'

'Thank you,' Bronwyn answered. Enoch didn't say anything.

There was that look again... what the hell was he supposed to do with that? What was he supposed to think?

'Are you quite alright, Enoch?' Bronwyn's voice seemed to come from very far way. 'You don't look so well. Maybe you should –'

'I don't have to do anything,' he snapped. 'I'm fine.'

'What's gotten into you?!' The young woman immediately got defensive. 'Did I do something wrong?!'

'No...' It was suddenly very hot and for a few moments his sight got blurry. His head was pounding. He needed to lean against a wall to make sure he didn't fall over. 'It's just... I...'

It was suddenly becoming too much. The heat, the noise, the smell – everything. It was too much.

'Enoch! Someone needs to help him, I think he's going to faint –'

'Bronwyn...' He somehow managed to grab her arm. 'Please – shut up.'

'Wyn? What's happened?'

Victor's worried voice, right next to him. A second later, his face.

'C'mon, mate, let's get you inside... Wyn, what the hell?!'

'I don't know what happened, okay?! He just collapsed!'

Victor's strong arms pulled him upwards. 'Never mind. He needs to get out of the sun.'

When his sight refocused again he was laying on his back on the lower half on one of the bunk beds. Someone was brushing their fingers through his hair and when he turned his head he could see Bronwyn sitting next to him. She smiled as soon as she noticed this and said in a soft voice: 'How's your head, dear?'

'Could've been better. Could've been worse.' He tried to sit but Bronwyn immediately pushed him back. 'You almost fainted from overheating. You need to stay inside and just lay down for now, understood?'

Enoch groaned, but didn't protest further. He was too tired.

'I, uhm, I don't have any water for you,' she continued. 'Sorry.'

'Hm.'

'They didn't want to give me anything.'

'What a surprise.'

'Did you know there's an English officer?' she switched subjects, brushing his hair out of his face. 'Someone told me... I don't know what he would be doing here, but now that i think about it... We wouldn't tolerate a Nazi in Swansea.' Suddenly her voice almost sounded proud. 'We would've kicked him out immediately.'

Enoch smiled faintly. Of course she would. But this wasn't England, and this wasn't Swansea. Thet weren't in any position to kick Nazis in general, even Enoch knew that by now. And he had punched a soldier in the face. Multiple times.

'We'll be back in England by Christmas, Enoch.' Bronwyn broke the silence and her voice sounded grave. 'I'm sure of it. I don't know if you've heard Churchill while you were in Paris but he said the war would be over in months.'

Oh, how Enoch wanted to believe that. And for just that moment he actually did. When he fell asleep he dreamt of celebrating New Year's Eve with his parents and Claire, in a London without bombs and with houses covered in snow.

That night, another three people committed suicide. And the day after that the first train arrived.

'How many people could fit on that train?'

'Do you think they'll choose people at random?'

'Hush, try not to draw attention to yourself...'

'Where are they taking us?'

Thousands of voices sounded clear and unnatural in the thin morning air. The news that people would be sent away had reached the first prisoners early in the morning, and by the time the sun had risen above the trees every person in the camp knew – and feared for their lives.

'Will they send us back home, Enoch?'

Claire's little hands grasped his thin jacket – that was actually not his, but Victor's – and the girl looked up to him. Oh, how he loved her and wanted to tell her they were going home... But he couldn't. Enoch sighed, lifted her up and held her close. 'I'm afraid not, little one. But as long as we stay together, the four of us, we'll be alright.'

He walked out of the barrack, with Claire on his arm. People had already packed together, talking in low, panicked voices. They'd all seen that the soldiers had doubled in number.

'Enoch? Enoch, have you seen Victor?'

It was Bronwyn, pale and nervous, who appeared next to him. 'I haven't seen him yet, I thought he was with you...'

'He isn't.' Enoch frowned. Victor had left before him to go outside on his own. The young man stood on tiptoes and looked around, but it was impossible to find him in the enormous crowd.

' – if you hear your name you will form a line against the walls of the buildings on your left!'

Enoch quickly turned his head to see who had spoken and saw an officer he didn't recognise with dark blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. 'Those who do not follow this order or try to protest will be killed on sight – have I made myself clear?'

Enoch put down Claire and squatted down in front of her, so he could look her in the eyes as he took her hands in his. 'Listen, Claire. Go back to the barracks and hide. They'll be too busy here to notice you. If they call your name I'll tell them – I'll tell them you died from a fever or something. If you can't find me and I'm –' He stopped, swallowed and continued. 'Stay with Victor and Bronwyn. They'll take care of you.'

'But –'

'Go! Please, Claire, just – I'll be fine –' He let go of her hands and pushed her towards the barracks.

When he looked up and turned around, it was as if all hell had broken loose. Family members and friends of people who were summoned started yelling, crying, screaming – nobody was listening to the orders they'd been given, only held back by the soldiers and their guns.

An agonizing scream, almost inhuman, made his blood turn cold.

' _Victor!'_

'Get back, you stupid girl!'

'Bronwyn, no!'

Enoch had reached Bronwyn in just a few seconds. He grabbed her left arm and pulled her back, away from the soldiers; he closed his other hand around her shoulder, almost dug his nails into her skin; yelled something in her ear about how it would be suicide if she took one step further – he did all this before he noticed what was really going on.

Victor was already being lead away from them, screaming as he tried to push the solider aside to get back to his sister. But the officer hadn't been joking when saying that any form of protest wouldn't be tolerated; Victor's head was pushed down and only few seconds later he'd disappeared.

'I need to follow him... he can't go on his own – I'm his sister, I need to – we have to stay together – he – it's not –'

Bronwyn's sobbing made it almost impossible to make out what she was saying and eventually she was just crying against Enoch's shoulder, who kept holding her even as the enormous group of people was lead away.

They'd taken his friend... It took him a lot of willpower not to run after them, to make sure they would at least stay together – but he knew he couldn't. Claire was still here. He had to look after her.

Bronwyn eventually stopped crying. She wipes her last tears away with trembling hands, avoided Enoch's gaze and stepped away from him, not saying a word.

'I'm – I'm going to look for Claire,' he mumbled. 'I'll see you later.'

He needed to do something. He needed to keep his mind and thoughts occupied. Because, most importantly, he didn't want to think about what would happen to Victor.

He knew what the destination of all those people that were sent away on those trains was. He'd heard stories of concentration camps and gas chambers, and he knew he was never going to see Victor again. He would have to live with that, but at that moment he couldn't bear to think about it.

But seven thousand was a lot of people, and finding a girl whom you've told to hide was really not as easy as he'd previously thought.

Of course he asked around if anyone had seen her, but there were dozens of little girls and people were too busy processing their own losses to be worried about someone else's child.

And then it slowly started to dawn on him. He'd been walking around for hours now without eating or drinking, the sun burning his neck, and a horrible realisation finally began to sink in.

They'd taken Claire. They'd found her and they'd taken not only Victor but also Claire.

His Claire... His little protégée... The girl he'd started to care for like a sister, like family. The only good thing about this by God forgotten place.

And instead of getting angry, instead of yelling, finding someone to blame, he sank down in the shadows of one of the empty barracks, put his head in his hands and started crying.

Footsteps, quickly approaching before suddenly stopping, and finally coming closer step by step. 'Enoch?'

Why was it always Horace who found him and not the other way around?

Enoch kept his head lowered, quickly wiping away his tears and trying to hide his swollen, red eyes, almost embarrassed. He didn't want Horace to know he'd been crying.

But the French boy noticed anyway. Of course he did. He kneeled down in front of him, put his hands on Enoch's – why where they so soft? – and gently asked: 'What happened?'

'Nothing happened,' he answered bluntly. He didn't pull his hands away, however, which he would've done if it had been anyone else sitting in front of him. But not now it was Horace. For some damn, unknown reason.

In reality, Enoch knew perfectly well why he didn't pull his hands away. He knew why a shiver went down his spine when Horace touched his wrists or why his heartbeat quickened when they finally made eye contact.

He just didn't want to admit it.

'Nothing happened? Is that why you're crying?' Horace's voice wasn't sharp, wasn't patronizing or mocking. He just smiled, with that warm, kind look in his eyes.

'They took Claire.' The anger couldn't keep his voice from shaking. 'They took her, and Victor, and I –' He stopped abruptly. Horace's smile had faded. 'It just – it's not fair...'

'I know, I know...' Horace closed his fingers around Enoch's hands and softly squeezed them. 'I'm – I'm sorry, I wish I could've stopped them –'

'You couldn't have.'

Suddenly Horace was the one lowering his head. 'I know. I – I'm a coward.'

Enoch frowned. 'Did someone call you that?' For a moment he forgot about his own sorrows. 'Who said that to you? You can just point them out to me, I'll –'

'My papa.'

This made Enoch shut up immediately. 'Oh.'

He was silent for a few moments, before he said: 'Well, he doesn't know what he's talking about.'

A feeling of accomplishment filled his chest when a faint smile appeared around Horace's lips. 'Thank you, Enoch. It's just...' He sighed. 'My father does not think highly of me. He... he does not want me here anymore.'

He looked ashamed.

'I think highly of you.' The words had escaped his mouth before he could stop himself. 'Your father doesn't know what he's saying. I owe you, Horace. I probably owe you my life.'

'Your words are too kind, Enoch.'

The boy in front of him was actually blushing – he'd made Horace Somnusson blush.

Oh God, how badly he suddenly wanted to kiss him. The sunlight was reflected in his eyes and gave his hair a golden glow, and his lips were curled into a smile. His soft hands were still tightly closed around Enoch's rough, scarred fingers.

After what seemed to be forever, but also ended too soon, Horace was the one who broke the silence.

'I am sure the war will be over soon,' he spoke softly. 'It was on the radio – Churchill promised the Netherlands will be free before the start of the new year.'

'Yeah, I heard,' Enoch sighed. 'Now we only have to hope Churchill is a man of his word.'

'I believe in him.' The young nurse squeezed his hands again. 'You'll be free before Christmas, and we'll be able to start our lives again.'


	9. Un homme comme les autres

Enoch should've been inside five minutes ago. It was getting colder now the sun had partially disappeared behind the trees of the forest, and the shadows were just big enough to make sure he could avoid being seen by the soldiers as he walked back to the barracks.

The day after Victor and Claire had left had been a long, hard day. Bronwyn had barely spoken to him at all; she hadn't eaten either but the both of them weren't hungry. Without Victor and Claire it had become weirdly silent as if they'd taken all that was left of hope with them. So Enoch had tried to keep himself as occupied as possible, which wasn't hard in here. The soldiers were more than happy to let the Jews work for them. Because they weren't good for anything if they weren't dead, except hard, sweat breaking labour.

A small, warm hand closed around his wrist and pulled him sideways through a doorway, and he would've yelled if another hand hadn't been placed over his mouth just a second later.

'Horace?!' he exclaimed as soon as the person had let him go, he could turn around and made out the French nurse in the shadows of the room. He'd been pulled inside one of the buildings and he knew he wasn't supposed to be here, but for some reason there wasn't a soul around. In the semi-darkness he could see a handful of pieces of furniture and that was it. What was he doing here?

'Please, _please_ try to be silent,' Horace whispered, an almost desperate tone in his voice. 'And don't turn on the lights, they can't know we are here – I don't have much time...'

'What is it?' Enoch had lowered his voice. He was now standing with his back turned towards the door and only had eyes for Horace. There was something troubling him, but what?

'You have to escape.' Horace's face was pale even in the shadows of the room. 'Before it's too late. They're going to send more people to camps in Germany, but I can help you get out.'

Enoch just stared at him.

Escaping the camp. It had been a constant thought at the back of his head, but hadn't become more than a feverish daydream. it was impossible, even Enoch knew that. And he thought Horace knew, too.

Yet here he was, offering to help him.

'And, uhm, how were you planning to do that?' he asked carefully, trying to keep the scepticism out of his voice. Horace surely had a plan of some sort.

'Yes, I do.' Horace was nervously wringing his hands together. 'Tomorrow morning, there will be a vehicle driving back to Paris. I'll be going too, to get supplies – we're running out of bandages. But if i can get you in, you'll –'

'I'm not leaving Bronwyn behind,' Enoch answered automatically. 'I can't do that to her. Either we both get out of here, or we both stay. I'm not going on my own.'

It looked as if Horace had expected an answer like this. 'But – you'd be free by noon – you'd –'

'I'm not leaving without her.' It was hard to keep his voice steady but he was determined. He was staying here.

Horace was silent for a few moments, lowering his head in disappointment. 'Then I hope – I hope they won't take you away on the first train that arrives next.'

Enoch smiled faintly. 'I hope so too.'

Before he knew what was going on, Horace was touching his hands, hesitantly hooking his fingers through Enoch's.

'Why – why would you help me? Why not anyone else?' Enoch hadn't pulled his hands away but had noticed the blonde boy had stepped closer towards him. 'Why would you try to save me, and not anyone else? There are thousands of people outside of this door – children, parents, doctors, teachers, why not save one of them?'

'Because – because –' Horace clearly hadn't thought about that, and suddenly looked almost lost as he searched for words. 'It's just that... I could save any one of those people, I know that. But you – you actually mean something to me. I know it's selfish and horrible because all of those people should be equal to me, including you, but you...'

He looked at him, and Enoch's mind went completely blank. Why was _he_ the one blushing? Why did he only notice now how close he was standing to the boy in front of him? Why was his heart beating in his throat?

'I know I shouldn't feel like this...' Horace voice was only a soft whisper now. 'I know I shouldn't care this much about you, but I just can't help it...'

Enoch just stood there, frozen. He could run away right now, if he wanted. He'd already let go of Horace's hands – the door was right behind him, he just needed to give it a firm push and it would be open, he could be in the barracks in less than twenty seconds, he just needed to open the door and he could –

But he didn't move. He didn't do anything, in fact. He could have, of course, but for some reason he stopped himself – the same parts of his brain that had made him think about Horace all these nights stopped him from leaving.

'Puis-je t'embrasser?'

'W-What?' Enoch stammered. It wasn't like he hadn't heard Horace and he knew perfectly well what he'd meant – he just didn't understand.

Horace smiled – a small, gentle laugh. 'Maybe I should ask you in your mother tongue – can I kiss you?'

Of course Horace could kiss him, was he insane? Did he not see how his heart was trying to jump out of his chest?

'Yes.' His hands were shaking as he reached for Horace. 'God, yes, I –'

He only broke their eye contact to look down at his lips and slowly reached for Horace's face, placing trembling fingers on his cheek.

'Don't be scared...' Horace's voice was barely a whisper now, their faces only centimetres away from each other. 'Just breathe.'

Enoch only then realised he'd held his breath. He exhaled slowly, reclaiming control over his body. His other hand had found Horace's waist and he carefully pulled him closer.

Just a second later, he kissed him. And it was a hundred times better than anything he could've imagined.

Horace's touch was just soft as his lips as he cupped Enoch's face in his hands, gentle as ever.

When their lips finally parted, Enoch moves his head just a fraction to the left and softly kissed the palm of Horace's hand. The French boy smiled, pulling him even closer.

'Je t'adore,' Enoch managed to whisper, his voice somewhat hoarse. Horace's smile just grew wider. 'The feeling is mutual, chéri.'

He could feel his cheeks getting hot again. It was almost unfair how much power Horace had over him without even being aware of this.

'Can I – can I kiss you again?'

Horace laughed softly and Enoch's knees suddenly felt weak.

But instead of answering, Horace moved his hands down to place them in Enoch's neck, gently pulled him down and kissed him a second time.

Enoch placed his arms around his waist, holding him close as he kissed him back.

'I'm so sorry I can't leave with you,' he mumbled a few seconds after their lips had parted again. He placed his forehead against Horace's and looked down on him, his arms still around him. 'I just can't. I have to stay with Bronwyn. She can't lose me too, I can't do that to her.'

Horace brought his hands down to Enoch's shoulders and sighed. 'I know. I understand.'

'Do you – do you think I'll be okay?'

It was a childish question, Enoch knew this, but that didn't keep him from asking. He'd never felt more alone than in the last week of his life, despite the Bruntley siblings, despite Claire, despite Horace – he missed his parents, and his home in London.

To his surprise, the other smiled.

'You appear as someone who can take care of himself.'

'You're unbelievable, Horace.' With a faint smile, he pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead. When he looked down again, he took Horace's face in his hands.

'If I make it, I'll come back to look for you. I'll come back to Paris, just to make sure you know I'm alive. And if –' He paused, slowly inhaled and then continued. 'If I don't come back when the war is over, can you let my parents know what happened? Their names are David and Elah O'Connor, they live in Newham in London – my father is an undertaker, he shouldn't be hard to find.'

Horace just nodded. He didn't seem able to answer and after a few seconds he just pulled Enoch into a tight embrace. Enoch buried his face in Horace's blonde hair and held him close, as if he would never let him go.


	10. La douleur exquise

Bronwyn and Enoch were separated when the second train came.

The latter stayed behind in Drancy for days, and watched how she was replaced by a thousand other people. The person who now occupied Victor's bed was a tall, dark-haired man with suntanned skin and a nose that seemed to have been broken multiple times, and who didn't share any personal details with Enoch other than the fact that his name was "Sharon". He didn't wear a bright, yellow star on his clothes, something that had surprised the young Englishman. He wasn't a Jew, he wasn't a Roma – Enoch had seen them in the camp, too – he seemed perfectly fine both physically and mentally speaking, so why was he here?

This little mystery managed to keep his mind somewhat occupied for the biggest part of the day now Victor, Bronwyn and Claire were all gone, because the little horrors of what had become his everyday life still went on. There were suicides every day now, even in broad daylight, even now there were over 7,000 people in the camp which meant you never got a private moment. Having this much people in a place that was only meant to hold between 700 and 800 was disgusting and drove many people crazy, but the Nazis didn't seem to care.

A week after Bronwyn had gone he had his first encounter with the English officer she'd told him about – a tall, stoic-faced man with piercing blue eyes that seemed to see everything. Jack Bentham didn't shout like the other men in charge – he stayed quiet and watched, like a bird of prey. If Enoch were to believe the woman in his barrack who'd told him about Bentham, his brother Myron was a high school teacher back in England.

'He's scary, isn't he?' she'd asked Enoch as the man had walked past them. 'It's his eyes... as if he can see everything here.'

It wasn't two days after that, however, that he experienced first-hand how cruel the man could be.

They were treated poorly, that wasn't a thing that surprised him anymore. By now he wasn't the only one who'd gotten into fights with a soldier and came back to their barrack with blue eyes and bleeding lips; he'd even heard that people had been shot on the terrain but he didn't know if that was true.

Jack Bentham, however, was worse than three of the other officers together.

It was another hot, summer day and again, the weather seemed to have zero mercy for the prisoners. Enoch, who wasn't used to such hot weather in the summer, had trouble keeping himself from fainting - there wasn't enough water and if he didn't watch out he was probably going to pass out from dehydration.

The thing that drew his attention as he walked back to the barracks - he was too tired to eat and just wanted to lie down - was the fact that the terrain looked weirdly empty. Of course there were still people walking around, but for some reason it seemed... quiet.

Until he realised that there was something going on between the first and second barrack.

And he didn't know how it came that he hadn't heard anything, because as soon as he turned a corner the first thing he saw was how Bentham kicked a man between the ribs.

People were watching, of course they were, but they weren't doing anything – they were keeping their distance, staring at what was happening with pale faces.

The man on the ground didn't even scream. From what Enoch could see his face was covered in blood and the ground on which he was kneeling down was slowly turning red as well – he was bleeding.

With a slight shock, Enoch recognised the man's features; Sharon. Good God, what had he done?

Without thinking, Enoch stepped forwards and tried/ to come closer, not thinking about Bentham at all, but someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He couldn't do anything, because if he did he would probably end up like the man on the ground, whatever he'd done to anger Bentham.

When the officer slowly stepped back, he was breathing heavily through his mouth as he wiped the sweat of his forehead. His hands were bloody, and so was the small knife in his hand.

'Monster...' A woman muttered behind him, but only Enoch heard her.

Bentham suddenly seemed to realise people had gathered around them and looked at them with an almost bewildered expression on his face, as if he felt trapped. But then the look in his eyes changed, he put the knife away and his cold stare returned.

'Go to your barracks. Now.'

At once, the crowd scattered. Except Enoch, who stepped forwards.

'Did you not hear what I said, boy?' Bentham now looked straight at him, and a shiver went down his spine. He did not blink, however.

'I did, sir,' he answered, trying to keep his voice calm. 'I'm sorry, sir, I just wanted to help him.'

'He can help himself,' Bentham answered. He had stepped towards him and looked down on Enoch, hands behind his back. 'Go back to your barrack. That's an order.'

Enoch gritted his teeth. 'Yes, sir.'

So of course he waited around the corner until he was sure Bentham had gone before he quickly approached Sharon, who was still laying on the ground. Enoch hesitantly reached for his shoulder and turned him around so he was lying on his back, and he involuntarily held his breath.

The man looked absolutely awful. There seemed to be cuts on every inch of his face and although they weren't very deep and the blood had dried up for the most part it still delivered a horrible sight. His eyes were both closed and he didn't react when Enoch quietly asked: 'Can – can you hear me?'

So he was basically unconscious. Great.

But when Enoch tried to pull him off the ground he was suddenly pushed backwards by a strong set of hands and he almost fell over.

'Get away from me, boy...'

Sharon had opened his eyes and tried to sit, clearly hurting all over. Enoch just stared at him for a few moments, before he opened his mouth to speak. 'Why did he do this to you?'

'That's none of your damn business,' Sharon answered shortly. He kept turning his head away, as if he didn't want to look Enoch in the eye, and miraculously managed to get back up on his feet. He staggered backwards and almost fell, but Enoch grabbed his wrist just in time.

'We need to get you to a doctor.'

'I don't need a doctor.'

'Sure you don't. Do you really want to let those wounds get infected?'

A short, irritated silence.

'Thought so. Just let me help you.'

He pulled one of Sharon's arms around his shoulders so the tall man could lean on him and slowly started walking.

'Good Lord, what happened to him?'

Alain Somnusson just stepped outside as they came walking towards him. Enoch just shook his head. 'Got into a fight, sir.'

'Did not.'

Sharon really didn't seem like he wanted to be here, or be helped by doctor Somnusson, but that was none of his business. He instead turned to the doctor and asked: 'Is your son inside?'

He could see how the man immediately turned suspicious by the way he narrowed his eyes. 'Why? And aren't you supposed to be returning to your barrack?'

'I am, but I – I need just thirty seconds with him, sir, please –'

'Enoch!'

Oh, thank God.

He didn't look at doctor Somnusson or Sharon even once and quickly stepped towards Horace, who immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him around the corner.

'Hi,' Enoch said, a bit out of breath all of the sudden, and smiled. 'How, eh, how are you?'

'Good, now you're finally here,' Horace answered, looking around before carefully taking his hands. 'I missed you.'

'I missed you, too. If you hadn't been here I probably wouldn't have survived.'

Well, I –' The French boy suddenly averted his gaze. 'I need to talk to you about something.'

Enoch instantly stopped smiling and the happy feeling he'd gotten completely disappeared. 'Really? What is it?'

Horace squeezed his hands so hard it started to hurt, not looking him in the eyes. It took him a while for him to actually open his mouth to speak and when he did his voice was trembling.

'You need to listen very carefully, Enoch, because I'm speaking the truth. And you need to promise you won't do anything stupid.'

'I promise.' The words were more of an automatic reaction than the actual truth.

'I – I had a dream last night.' Horace looked to his left, but no-one was there. 'And I know – I know how that sounds, I know, but you have to believe me...'

'Just tell me what's wrong, Horace.'

Horace paused, swallowed and took a deep breath. 'Okay. So... I had a dream. And in that dream, they... They took you away from me.' His voice cracked.

'Horace...' Enoch, not even looking around to see if anyone was close, pulled the French boy towards him. 'We're going to get separated eventually. You know – you know we can't stay together.' He paused, before continuing.

'But as I said, I'll come back for you. I'll come back to Paris to look for you, even if we can't stay together. Even then, I'll come back for you and we'll find each other.'

Horace's lips trembled as Enoch gently pulled one hand free to place it under Horace's chin and carefully lift it up. He smiled faintly when they looked each other in the eye and quickly kissed him before he let go again. He was dead if someone saw them together like that.

'Promise?' Horace asked.

Enoch smiled.

'Promise.'


	11. Quand il pleut, il verse

The train was almost worse than the camp, and that was saying something.

They weren't people anymore, they were cattle. And they would be treated as such. They didn't have rights anymore.

'You look bloody awful,' Enoch mumbled to a boy his age who stood next to him and had to grip the wall to make sure he didn't fall over when the train started moving. The boy had a black eye and a small cut just under his lower lip, but smiled nevertheless when he saw Enoch had addressed him. 'You should've seen the other one.'

They shook hands, and the boy, who was shorter than him but had a firm handshake and glowing, brown eyes, introduced himself as Abraham.

'You can call me Abe if you want to, though. Almost everyone does. Except my mum.'

Enoch told him his name as well, and asked him if he'd gotten into a fight.

'Yeah, with a soldier,' Abe answered, the glow in his eyes fading just a little. 'Dirty bastard. We should kill every Nazi there's left once the war is over – and every German too, if you ask me.'

'But... Isn't that exactly...'

'Doesn't matter,' Abe interrupted, waving his hand. 'What does matter is that those rats get what they deserve.'

Enoch didn't reply to that. Of course he agreed, definitely for a huge part, but to commit mass murder against the Germans was maybe a little too much.

'You're not from here, are you?' the boy asked. 'You're not French. You don't _sound_ French.'

'I'm from England,' Enoch admitted. 'But you're not French, either.'

'No, I'm from Poland.'

And that's all he wanted to say about it.

Not much later, he realised Sharon was standing not that far away from him, with his back against the wall and his head almost hitting the ceiling. He wasn't talking to anyone and he looked absolutely horrible; doctor Somnusson had tried his best to somewhat cleanse the wounds but Enoch was sure he was going to have a face covered in scars once those had healed.

'You see that man there?' Abe nodded towards Sharon, lowering his voice to make sure only Enoch could hear him. 'You know what happened to him?'

'Officer Bentham kicked the living hell out of him.'

'Yes, I know, I was there. You know why?'

'No.' Enoch glanced at the shorter boy next to him. 'Do you?'

'Well...' Abe gestured that Enoch should come closer, looked over his shoulder and said: 'People say he'd been communicating with the outside world. With the resistance. I don't know how he did it but I also heard he helped a lot of Jews get to the coast by hiding them in his boat or something.'

'His boat?' Enoch glanced at Sharon, who didn't seem to be noticing them.

'I only heard it from someone else, but at one point the Nazis discovered it and, well...' Abe didn't finish his sentence and only gestured vaguely towards the tall man. 'Anyway. We're all going to die no matter what, so what's the point in sharing our life stories if none of us will be alive to remember them?'

This fact – the fact that they were on their way to a concentration camp – didn't seem to bother him as much as it should have. Enoch himself was terrified (although he tried his hardest not to let it show) but Abraham didn't seem scared at all. Or maybe he was just trying to hide it as well.

Later in his life, Enoch couldn't remember much about that journey. Mostly because it had been so horrible that he'd tried to forget everything that had happened until the moment he'd arrived in the camp, so he always stuck to telling the rest and leaving the train out of the story altogether, as if it hadn't been that much of a deal.

He and Abraham tried to stay together as much as possible, and managed to do this without much trouble. They had ended up in a whole other world - where Drancy had been sunny and hot, Auschwitz was rainy and dark.

He never would've expected to end up here. It wasn't exactly like he'd been careful, but he'd always thought he would end up alright, as if the war somehow wouldn't be able to reach his fingers out to him. As if he could outrun death.

But then again, he also never would've expected to hear one particular voice ever again.

' _Enoch!'_

As soon as he heard the scream of the young woman he turned around, pale as a ghost. She couldn't be here – he was becoming delusional after not drinking for hours – she was just a hallucination –

But when she came closer he realised it was actually her.

Bronwyn Bruntley, in one piece – thinner and dirtier than the last time he'd seen her, sure, but apart from the scratch right above her eyebrow she seemed fine.

'Enoch...' she repeated, out of breath from running towards him as she grabbed both his arms and looked at him. Then she brought her hands up to his face, touched his cheeks and pulled him close, her eyes wide as if she could barely believe them. 'You're actually here... Oh my God, I was –'

She couldn't finish her sentence. Enoch had pulled her into a tight hug, wrapping his arms closely around her and burying his face into her shoulder.

'Move along, people! We don't have all day!'

The loud voice made them look up and Bronwyn immediately grabbed his hand, pulling him with her. 'Come.'

'I can't believe you're still alive,' Enoch muttered as they walked further into the camp, not able to keep his eyes of her. He'd completely forgotten about Abraham, who'd seemed to have disappeared anyway. She looked as if she'd aged five years since they'd last seen each other, but she still kept her head high and her shoulders pushed back as she walked.

'I can't believe you're still walking around either,' she replied, squeezing his hand. 'I thought you would've been killed for calling an officer a – Olivia, sweetheart!'

They'd stopped next to a barrack that was bigger than the ones in Drancy, but had exactly the same, unwelcoming ambiance around them.

There was a little girl, maybe Claire's age, sitting down with her back against the wall, and as soon as she heard her name she looked up. She smiled when she recognized Bronwyn and immediately started talking in what sounded like Italian.

She didn't stand up to greet them, however, and a few seconds later Enoch saw why.

There was something wrong with her legs.

She was physically disabled.

He clenched his hands into fists as Bronwyn walked towards the girl, picked her up from the ground and turned around to Enoch. Clearly she hadn't lost her caring, motherly instinct.

'Enoch, dear, this is Olivia Elephanta. She's from Italy.'

Olivia smiled when she recognized her name and started talking in rapid Italian again, but Bronwyn shushed her and continued. 'She can't walk...'

'I can see that.'

'... but I'm taking care of her. It's a miracle she's still alive.'

'Why?'

Bronwyn's smile disappeared. 'I'll spare you the details.'

She turned back to Olivia and told her in broken Italian: 'Ti presento un amico mi, Enoch.'

Olivia's face lit up. She smiled, extended her hand towards him and managed to grab his sleeve, still babbling along in her native language.

'I'm so glad to see you again,' Enoch muttered, looking back to Bronwyn as Olivia tugged on his blouse. The young woman smiled at him and pressed a kiss on his cheek. 'I'm glad to see you too, dear. At least we're still together.'

Yes, maybe the two of them were. Enoch didn't think they were ever going to hear from Victor or Claire ever again.

If they would even survive this camp.


	12. Sous le ciel de Paris

_August 26, 1944. One day after the liberation of Paris._

Horace Somnusson hadn't left Paris since the summer of 1942. And now, three years later, he was still here. The war outside of the city had passed him by like a distant nightmare.

And now the war was over, or at least in Paris. The Germans were gone, and the people of the city were celebrating.

'You okay there, boy?' An American soldier had walked past him and must've seen Horace's blank stare, because he stopped, grinned and patted him on the back before he continued: 'Don't worry 'bout it, son. It can be hard to happy if you've some stuff. Hell, I'm probably never gonna forget. But we're free, son, and nothing is gonna stop us again.'

He gave him a friendly pat on the back and continued walking. Horace, who hadn't given him any kind of reaction at all, followed the American with his gaze and saw how a woman pulled him away from his friends, kissed him and pushed a bouquet of flowers in his arms.

The parade seemed endless.

And Horace just wanted to go home.

It was hard to feel happy about the Liberation of Paris, even though it meant he could go back to living his life like he'd wanted before the war. He could go back to school, go to the university to study medicine, start a family. But he was never going to forget what he'd seen in Drancy.

God, he couldn't even begin to imagine how it had been in other parts of the world.

The thought of him still kept him awake at night.

And the worst part was that he felt guilty about it. It wasn't like he'd suffered – he'd just done his job as a nurse, helping his patients in any way he could. He'd seen how the prisoners in the camp had been treated and he knew there wasn't anything he could've done. His trauma wasn't anything compared to the survivors of those camps, or the men and boys who'd fought to protect their country. He felt like his trauma wasn't valid.

Just days before, Drancy had been given over to the French Resistance. Horace had been completely terrified but both he and his father had gotten out untouched.

Oh, how happy he'd been to see his mother again. He had missed the woman dearly – in the camp they hadn't been able to keep contact and it had been ages since they'd talked. He'd wanted to tell her everything, just to get that weight off his chest, but even after that it still felt like he was being pushed underwater. There was still something weighing heavily on his shoulders, and although he was trying to deny it he knew what it was.

Or rather, who it was.

It was stupid, and he knew this, but he couldn't forget the boy he'd met three years ago.

And how could he? He was impossible to forget. He remembered everything.

He remembered his voice: his accent, his inflection, how it had trembled the last time they'd spoken. He remembered every inch of his face: his dark, piercing eyes, the thick eyebrows, the long nose, his lips.

He remembered his smile.

His kiss.

His name.

Tears stung behind his eyes, and he lowered his head. People were singing, cheering, celebrating their freedom – but he couldn't participate. He felt empty.

'Horace?'

It was his father, who was standing right behind him. He placed a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. 'Are you alright?'

'Yes, papa, I – it's just a headache, it's okay...'

He was lying, of course. He wasn't going to tell anyone about the boy he'd loved and lost – it was going to be a secret he'd take to his grave.

'Is it the sun?' Alain Somnusson had pulled his son away from the crowd as much as possible, sounding worried. 'Do you want to go home?'

'What's wrong, _mon ange_?'

There was his mother. There was only one person in the world who called him "angel".

'Just a headache,' he repeated, almost losing his balance as someone ran into him, apologized and continued walking. 'I – I think I'll go home, if –'

'Will you manage? Do you want one of us to come?'

'No, no.' Horace shook his head, shielding his eyes against the sun and avoiding his parents' gazes. 'I'll be alright.'

A few months later, Hitler committed suicide. One bullet through his brain, and France celebrated again. It was only a matter of time before those poor people in the Netherlands would be free as well – Canadian soldiers were still fighting hard for their freedom but it wouldn't take long until the Nazis would be defeated at last.

There was a special area in the centre of Paris where people with lost friends or family members who'd been shipped off to camps in other parts of Europe would be able to find out what happened to them – a meeting point for lost people.

Horace had told his father he liked to walk around this place because he enjoyed seeing how families and friends found each other. It was not a complete lie, since it was true that he smiled every time he heard a scream of joy, followed by someone running across the hall to embrace their long lost loved one.

But it wasn't the complete truth, either.

He was still waiting for him.

He had to know what happened to him. Even if he was dead, it was still better than knowing nothing.

David and Elah O'Connor hadn't been hard to find. There were only two undertakers who lived in Newham and Horace had their address written down on a piece of paper, but concerning the letter itself he hadn't come further than "Dear Sir and Madam O'Connor,".

As long as he didn't finish it, there was still hope. He didn't know if Enoch was dead yet, so as long as it stayed that way he wouldn't write.

But how long did he have to wait?

Any kind of news would have sufficed. Anything to let him know what happened. He hadn't heard anything about those siblings or the little girl, either – he'd managed to remember their names. Out of those thousands of people who'd passed through the camp, they were the only ones whose faces he remembered.

So he visited the building every day, and looked through the thousands, millions of messages. People all over the country were still looking for their loved ones.

" _Family of Pierre and Maryne Cohen still looking for their son/daughter. If you have any knowledge of their whereabouts, please contact us."_

" _Lotte Rousset – six years – lost parents – doesn't speak. Currently staying at understated address."_

" _I am alive. Won't you write to let me know you're okay? – Emma"_

His eyes kept hovering over the last piece of paper for a second; it was hanging in the middle of the board he was standing in front of, before he let out a deep sigh. He hoped that Emma would find the person she was looking for, whoever it was – a family member, a friend, a lover.

'Are you looking for someone?'

He turned around and looked directly into the face of an old woman with white hair and kind, dark eyes. She smiled at him, and the feeling of emptiness inside him disappeared a little.

'Yes, actually.' Horace sighed. 'I'm waiting for – for a friend to return. I haven't heard from him yet.'

'Amélie?'

They both looked up.

An old man turned the corner and started to smile as soon as he saw the both of them. 'Who have you found here, Amélie?'

'This young man is looking for a friend, sweetheart.'

The woman looked around and smiled at the man, who seemed to be her husband. They both turned back to look at him and Horace quickly ran his fingers through his hair, despite the fact that it was already neat and he would only mess it up doing that. He'd involuntarily averted his gaze.

'Listen here, son.' The man spoke in a low, kind voice and when Horace looked up again he was smiling. 'I managed to find my Amélie after five years of being apart. I didn't think either of us would be alive when the war was over, but here we are.'

He looked at his wife, and Horace could see a faint glimmer in his eyes as he spoke. After a few moments of silence, he glanced at the young man again and continued: 'What I'm trying to say, boy, is that you can't lose hope yet. There is still time.'

Horace managed to smile. 'Thank you, sir.'

They both smiled back - the woman nodded at him and gently touched his shoulder as she passed, and a moment later they'd disappeared around the corner.

Long after the couple had gone and it was getting darker outside, Horace promised himself he would come back to this place every single day if he could – it didn't matter it would take him longer to get home, or that his parents would ask him about where he went and why he was home late. As the man had said, time was on his side. There was nothing he could do but wait, so that was what he was going to do.

He would come back until he heard something, anything, about what had happened to Enoch.

Even if it would break his heart.


	13. L'espérance de la liberté

'It's such a relief to talk to an actual Englishman again, you have no idea.'

Enoch glanced at the boy next to him, and managed to give him a faint smile. 'But to be honest, I can't wait to be actually home.'

The English soldier chuckled softly. 'Why?'

'Because it's too hot here,' Enoch answered airily. 'I hate it.' His smile grew wider as soon as the other began to laugh – he really had made a new friend.

Millard Nullings was a tall, slender boy, about twenty years old, with big hands and big feet. Enoch had noticed the stretch marks on his freckled skin, indicating that he used to be a bit chubby, but hadn't mentioned it.

'Do your parents know you're alive?' Millard had been looking out of the window but turned back before asking Enoch this question. The young man shook his head. 'They have no idea of where I am. I hope they haven't given up on finding me yet – and I hope they haven't moved, otherwise sending a letter is going to be difficult.'

Millard smiled. 'I reckon you're very happy to have someone waiting for you at home.'

'Yeah, I am.' Enoch leaned backwards and was silent for a moment before he continued: 'I promised someone I'd come to Paris first, though. I'll send my parents a letter when I can.'

'Why would you go to Paris?' Millard asked, sounding curious and looking at him with raised eyebrows. 'What could be so important that you'd go there first instead of going back home?'

'I promised him I'd come look for him and let him know I was alive.'

'Do you know where he lives?'

'No.'

'Then why would you go through all that trouble?'

 _Because I can't stop thinking about him._

'I don't know.'

'Well, I'm not going to stop you.'

They both went silent again, as the train slowly made its way through the German landscape. It had been less than a week since Enoch had been freed, by none other than the boy who was sitting next to him – and, of course, the dozens of other soldiers.

He'd lost Bronwyn a year ago. They'd been separated again and this time she hadn't come back – for all he knew she was dead. Maybe every person he'd started to care about was dead: Victor, Bronwyn, Claire, Abraham.

Olivia was sleeping next to him with her head resting against his leg. Millard had given her his jacket to place it under her head, and she didn't seem to mind the movements of the train since she slept very peacefully.

The girl had picked up a few words of English and they were finally able to communicate a little. It helped, but after they'd gotten separated from Bronwyn it was very hard to understand what she was trying to say.

Enoch didn't know if she still had any family left. He'd asked her about her parents, but she hadn't understood his question and until this day he still didn't know anything. He wasn't just going to leave her behind on the streets of Paris as soon as they got there, but he didn't feel like it was his job to keep taking care of her, either. He just wanted to find Horace and go home... Much hope for his friends being alive wasn't really left.

'Do you think I could send her back to Italy?' Enoch asked quietly, carefully brushing Olivia's dark hair out of her face. She was still so incredibly young... Could she handle travelling alone? Would she even survive the journey?

'I wouldn't do it if I were you,' Millard answered. 'If you don't hear from her parents you could send her to an orphanage.'

'I don't want to do that.' He'd thought about this and he didn't like the idea of putting this sweet little girl in some orphanage. 'I'm supposed to take care of her, and not just leave her behind. She deserves better.'

'Then take her with you.' Enoch looked up in surprise and made eye contact with the English soldier, who just shrugged. 'To London, I mean. Take her with you, you don't have to leave her behind.'

'I don't know if she wants to do that.'

'Then let her decide. She's old enough to do that now, just ask her.'

Enoch just sighed, and looked at the little girl again. She would've liked Claire, he thought. They would've made good friends.

He wouldn't have hesitated to take Claire home with him. Olivia reminded him of her, but it just wasn't the same.

One day later, around six in the evening, they arrived in a little village in Luxembourg and decided to stay there for the night.

In broken German, filled in with a few French and English words, Enoch tried his hardest to explain to the owner of a tavern that they would only have to stay the night – Millard had money to pay him, they didn't even need to eat since there was enough food back in the train. They just wanted a bed.

But the man just shook his head and sent them back. Every single one of his beds was already filled by travellers, and he couldn't take them in, too.

So they went back, Millard carrying Olivia for a change, and made their beds in the train. It took some time before Enoch actually managed to fall asleep but when he finally did he slept more peaceful than he'd done in years – no dreams, no disturbance, nothing. Even the snoring of the people around him couldn't wake him up.

He was awakened the next morning by the starting engines of the train. Olivia's eyes were already open and the girl was sitting with her back against the wall, not paying any attention to him whatsoever – she'd gotten a little book with drawings of animals from one of the soldiers and was looking at them with a little light in her eyes.

Millard was nowhere to be seen, but Enoch didn't really worry about him. He probably had things to do.

He reappeared, however, half an hour later, with food in his arms and a big smile on his face. 'Look what I got for you two!'

'God, you're a saint,' Enoch moaned as he reached out both hands towards him. Millard chuckled softly. 'I wouldn't go that far. But you both look like skeletons and I know you barely got anything to eat back there. I want the two of you fat by the time we reach Paris. So fat, that we'll have to roll you out of the train.'

Enoch just smiled, and gratefully took the food from him. 'You have no idea how –'

'Just eat the food, Enoch.' Millard sat down in front of him and sunlight fell on his face. He was an attractive young man – dark curls that fell over his even darker eyes, a small nose and blushing cheeks covered with freckles, tanned skin. But the feeling he'd had with Horace wasn't there.

Millard was just pretty.

The English soldier didn't realise Enoch was looking at him, and handed Olivia, who of course had noticed what was going on and had put the book away since it wasn't as interesting as what Millard had brought, some food as well.

In the meantime Enoch ate in silence, quietly enjoying the fresh bread, the fruit, the clean water. He couldn't wait to have a proper meal at an actual table, but for now this would suffice. And he was more than happy with it.

The night before they arrived was clear and warm, like the nights before, but this time Enoch couldn't sleep. He'd waited until he was sure Olivia and Millard wouldn't hear him if he got up – Millard was a light sleeper, as he'd found out a few nights before – and then went outside to sit in the tall grass next to the railroad tracks.

It was completely quiet, apart from the crickets in the field and the snoring that came from inside of the train. Before him there were only hills for as far as he could look, although there might've been a small town somewhere in a valley, hiding in the shadows.

He was going home again. He could be back in London in less than a week, if everything went well. He was going to see his parents, his mother...

And still, he felt a little empty inside. He wanted to see his family again, sure, but it was as if the war had left a hole inside him that nothing could fill.

He'd lost everyone, he'd seen too much.

Maybe he just needed time to heal.

Or maybe he just had to feel everything at once, to let it hurt, before he could let it go.

He let out a trembling sigh, lowered his head. It was suddenly very cold outside, even in his new jacket and with his arms wrapped around him.

 _Pull yourself together._

He slowly exhaled again, opened his eyes and looked up to the night sky. For a few moments he didn't see more than a few blurry dots, but then his sight refocused.

The constellation of Orion shone bright above his head, and the moon seemed to be smiling down at him. The sight of it calmed him down, and after a few deep breaths he regained self control again.

After a while, his vision became blurry and out of focus again. He blinked, rubbed his eyes and carefully got up, out of the grass.

It was hard to see inside of the dark train, but a small stroke of moonlight made it possible to see where he was going and to avoid standing on any body parts of sleeping soldiers. Carefully he made his way back to his usual spot next to Olivia, who was still sleeping and laying under a thin blanket the way he'd left her.

He sat down beside her, and looked down at her pale, sunken face with pain in his heart. Then he leaned forwards, pressed a soft kiss on her forehead and whispered: 'It's going to be alright. We're going home.'


	14. Ne m'oubliez pas

No matter how much poor Paris had suffered during the war, Enoch still loved the city with every piece of his heart. She was still breathing, beaten up but still alive.

'And what are you going to do now, Mill?' They'd almost reached their destination and Enoch suddenly realised he hadn't asked this yet. What were the soldier's plans for the future?

'Back to England as quickly as possible.' Millard was playing with a little coin he'd found in his pockets and glanced up at him. 'I'm going to study at Oxford University, I'm going to get my degree and I'm going to become a teacher.'

'You sound ambitious.' Enoch smirked. It sounded like Millard had really thought about it.

'Thank you.' Millard gave him a faint smile.

'What are you going to study?'

The young man shrugged. 'History, mainly. Linguistics is also interesting. Maybe I'll do both.'

Enoch just nodded and they both were quiet for a few moments, before he added: 'I think you'll be a great teacher.'

They made eye contact, and both smiled.

'Thanks, Enoch.'

Before he could say anything else, Olivia tugged on his sleeve and he had to lift her up, a grin growing on his face. Her soft Italian muttering was still endearing and although he didn't understand it he'd gotten used to it. He put her down on his lap and wrapped one arm around her. 'We're almost there...'

Despite that, it still seemed to take forever until the train finally came to a halt. Enoch had gotten up from the ground, Olivia in his arms, and as soon as the doors were opened he jumped out of the train.

Finally, back in Paris.

He closed his eyes for a few moments as the sunlight fell on his face, breathed in and listened to the noise around him until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Millard had gotten out too.

'I think our ways part here, friend.' The soldier smiled at him. 'It was good having you around. We'll keep in touch, won't we?'

'Of course.' Enoch grinned. 'You gave me your address – I'll write to you as soon as I get home.'

'Please do.'

They shook hands, and Enoch gave him a pat on the back. 'Have a safe journey.'

'Thanks, you too. I hope you find your friend.'

Enoch managed to smile. 'I do too. Goodbye.'

Millard kissed the top of Olivia's head, chuckled softly when the little girl started laughing and then turned his back, taking all his belongings with him. Both Enoch and Olivia watched him go, but before he completely disappeared around a corner he turned around one last time, grinned when he saw them looking at him and waved.

The biggest problem Enoch had was that he needed to find somewhere to sleep. The only money he had was from Millard, who'd pushed it into his hand with the assurance that his parents were very rich and he could definitely miss it. Enoch needed it more than he did.

But when they'd arrived in Paris it had already been one in the afternoon, and although they'd eaten something for lunch he needed to find a place for Olivia to stay the night.

He didn't care much about himself. He didn't have any problems with sleeping on the streets for a night, but he wasn't going to force the little girl to do the same. He was responsible for her.

There was a nursery close to the place where he'd had an apartment, if he remembered correctly. He'd walked past it a few times, and it had seemed like a decent place – maybe he could go there and they would take care of Olivia.

He found the place quicker than he thought he would, and it was a relief to see that it almost hadn't changed. The only difference he could find were the curtains. The colours had changed from a bright red to blue, a change for the better.

Olivia clearly realised what was going on, as she tugged on his sleeve and looked at him with something of fear in her eyes. She didn't know exactly what was going on but she seemed scared.

'Hey, it's going to be okay,' he said softly, and smiled. 'We're going to find a place to sleep, alright? The people here might take care of you.'

He rang the bell, took a step back and waited. Olivia weighed heavily on his shoulder.

The door flung open, and a girl appeared. 'Bonjour! Peux-je vous aider avec –'

She fell silent.

So did Enoch.

'You're – you're alive... you're... Enoch... how...'

'Bronwyn.'

The girl in front of him was still the person he'd met in the Vélodrome – still the strong, motherly girl with the kind eyes and reassuring smile. But she'd changed, too. Her hair was shorter, she was thinner and somewhat harder, but as she slowly started to recognize him her eyes started growing soft and gentle again.

'Enoch...'

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So instead of making a decision between the two he just did both.

'I – I'd hug you, but – but I don't – I don't think Olivia would fancy being smothered.' He smiled, trying to blink the tears away.

'Oh, shut it,' Bronwyn answered, her voice a bit muffled, before she took Olivia from him and pulled him into a tight hug. Enoch wrapped both arms around her and held her close, burying his face into her shoulder.

Even when they finally let go of each other they were both still teary eyed, but Enoch managed to smile before he kissed her on the forehead. 'I can't even express how happy I am to see you...'

Bronwyn seemed speechless. She just sighed, still with tears in her eyes, smiled and then looked at Olivia. 'Hello, little one...'

Then she glanced back at Enoch. 'How did you find us?'

'I – this was a complete accident, I didn't – what do you mean, _us_?'

Bronwyn looked at him for a few seconds before opening her mouth to answer, but before she could a door opened and she turned around.

An older woman walked into the hallway, a frown on her face. 'Mademoiselle Bruntley!'

Bronwyn immediately walked towards her, talking in rapid French to assure the woman everything was alright, still carrying Olivia on her arm as she went. Enoch hesitantly followed her and closed the door behind him, smiling awkwardly when the woman glanced over at him.

'Who is he?'

'He's a friend of mine, mademoiselle,' Bronwyn explained, turning back. 'His name is Enoch.'

The woman looked down on him, considering his appearance for a few seconds, before she extended her hand towards him. 'Mademoiselle Pélerin,' she said, and suddenly a smile appeared on her face. 'Delighted to meet you.'

He carefully shook her hand. 'Enoch O'Connor.'

'I take it you'll be staying with us?'

'Not for long,' he said quickly. 'I was planning on going home as soon as possible, but if I can –'

'As long as you behave you can stay here as long as you like, monsieur.' She glanced at him over the edge of her glasses, before turning around and walking back to the door through which she'd come. 'You two need to clean up immediately. I'll take care of mademoiselle Elephanta here. Mademoiselle Bruntley, can you take your friend to his room?'

'I will,' the young woman answered, a smile on her face as she looked at him. 'But first, I have to show him something else.'

She took his hand, and pulled him with her.

'Where are we going?' Enoch asked, confused. Bronwyn took him upstairs without answering his question, where they arrived in a long hallway with about a dozen doors, six on either side. She pulled him along until she'd reached the third row and knocked on the door on her left, before she took a step backwards and waited.

The door flung open, and Enoch had to look down to see who'd opened it.

It was a little girl in a pretty pink dress, her blonde curls falling over her shoulders. There was a ribbon in her hair, the same colour as her dark red shoes.

'Enoch!'

She bolted forwards, flung her arms around his waist.

Enoch just stood there, frozen, until something inside of him seemed to break – and he started crying.

Because this wasn't just some little girl in a pretty dress.

It was his Claire, alive and breathing.

He slowly sank to his knees and Claire let go of him, a worried look on her face. 'Enoch? Why are you crying? Are you hurt?'

She hadn't changed a bit. The only difference was that she'd aged - she must've been older than ten by now. Enoch just shook his head, trying to stop his uncontrollable sobbing, and pulled her close again. Claire rested her head on his shoulder and gently caressed his hair, as if she'd learned to do this by watching Bronwyn. 'I'm happy to see you, Enoch... I missed you.'

'I missed you too, Claire,' he mumbled, quickly wiping his tears away. 'I – I can't believe...'

He didn't finish his sentence because he'd raised his head to look at her, and she just smiled at him. He slowly exhaled, took her hands and looked at her.

'You've grown.'

'Of course I have! I'm not little anymore! I can't even wear my own shoes!'

'Really?'

'Yes, but I have new ones.' She nodded at the red shoes she was wearing. 'Do you like them?'

'I love them,' Enoch answered, smiling. 'And I love you. Come here.' He kissed her forehead, got up and lifted her from the ground, turning around to see Bronwyn practically beaming.

'Wow, you're heavy!' he said, a grin on his face. 'You don't have to eat for another week!'

Claire poked his cheek. 'And you're skinny. You can have my food, okay?'

He smiled. 'I was just joking, Claire. But that's very kind of you.'

She smiled back at him. 'I like your beard.'

''I don't,' Bronwyn interrupted, although she was still smiling at the two of them. 'Enoch is going to clean himself up and if he's lucky there are clothes that he can wear.'

Enoch nodded with a sigh, and put Claire down on the ground again. 'I'll be back soon, okay?'

He smiled at her before he followed Bronwyn again, back down the stairs and into what seemed like a bathroom.

'There's water over there,' she said, nodding towards a corner of the room. 'Will you manage on your own?'

'I think so, yes,' he answered, but before she could leave he added: 'Just one thing, Wyn... Do you know what happened to Victor?'

She looked at him, and suddenly the light in her eyes had faded.

'He's dead.'

They looked at each other in silence, before Enoch just nodded. 'I'm – I'm sorry.'

Bronwyn didn't reply. She just averted her gaze, turned around and closed the door behind her as she left.

They told each other their stories over dinner, and what had happened after they'd gotten separated. Enoch told them about the liberation of his camp, how he'd met Millard and about his journey back to Paris.

Claire had spent a lot of time in the Netherlands and had travelled back to Paris on her own, where she'd accidentally run into Bronwyn on the steps of the Notre Dame.

Bronwyn herself didn't seem to want to share her part of the same story, and acted as if she was too busy eating. Enoch didn't mind - there was a time and a place and clearly she didn't want to talk about it right now.

That evening he went to bed with the thought that he hadn't lost everything, and he spent the night without nightmares.

Next morning Enoch sat down at the dining table with Bronwyn, to write a letter to his parents. It wasn't very long – he would tell his story when he got home.

 _Dear Mum & Dad,_

 _I'm alive. I'm not wounded or sick but it will probably take a while before I return to London – I'm staying in Paris for two more weeks after sending this letter. Please, do not worry about me. I am fine._

 _I love you, and hope you are both in good health. I'll see you soon._

 _Enoch_

After this letter was posted he didn't return to the nursery, however. Instead, he spent his morning on the steps of the Notre Dame, enjoying the sun on his face as he thought about what he would do next. He was determined to find Horace, but if he didn't find him in two weeks he would really have to leave Paris behind. He really wanted to go home.

When he returned just before lunchtime, he found Bronwyn upstairs with Claire and Olivia. Despite the language barrier they seemed to be getting along just fine, and as he walked in Claire was braiding Olivia's dark hair. Bronwyn was sitting in a chair with a book in her hands, but looked up when he opened the door and smiled. 'We wondered where you'd gone!'

'I decided to take a walk,' he answered as he sat down next to her. 'Trying to figure out what I'm going to do.' He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and glanced at the girl next to him. 'What are your plans, anyway? Are you going home?'

She shrugged. 'I don't know, Enoch. My parents are dead, my brother – my brother is dead, I have nowhere to go...' She glanced out of the window. 'Maybe I'll just stay here. I could go to school here, start my life again.'

Enoch looked at her in silence for a few moments. He practically thought of her as his own sister by now.

'You could come with me.'

The girl turned her head back to him. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that when I return to London in two weeks, you could come with me. I was planning on getting a place of my own, and my parents aren't poor – we'll figure something out. Claire could come with us, even Olivia.'

Deep inside, he knew it was a rash and almost stupid decision to let them come with him and invite them all into his home, but he didn't want to leave them behind again. If he could help, then he would.

Bronwyn seemed to hesitate, and then shook her head. 'No, I couldn't. I'll just – I'll stay here, and I'll write you –'

'No, you should come.' Enoch smiled. 'Here, you'll only be reminded of everything that happened. Don't you want to forget that?'

She looked at him, and sighed. 'Yes...'

'You can come with me, if you want to.' He was quiet for a second, before he added: 'I'd love to have you around.'

She managed to smile at him. 'Thank you, Enoch. I – I'll think about it.'

Enoch smirked. 'Please do.'

Claire had apparently overheard their conversation, because she looked up and said: 'I'm only coming to England if Bronwyn comes, too. I want to stay together.'

They both looked at Bronwyn, who sighed but then eventually smiled again. 'Fine, I'll come to England with you. I can't spend the rest of my life not taking risks.'

Enoch grinned. 'Amazing.'

'But we'll have to figure out what we're going to do once we're there,' she added as she picked up her book again. Enoch immediately made a waving gesture with his hand. 'I've had enough things to worry about for the rest of my life, Wyn. Can we just be happy that we're back together now?'

Alain and Claudette Somnusson lived in one of the prettier neighbourhoods of Paris, where the people were richer and the houses were more expensive. Enoch didn't really feel at home here – it was too quiet, too clean. As he walked around he realised even more how much he wanted to go home.

The house of the Somnusson family was a single house in the middle of the street, with a red roof and a pretty front garden filled with flowers. He didn't go up to the front door, however. Instead, he just shot a glance at the house and then continued walking.

 _Just do it._

At the end of the street, he turned around again to face the way he'd come from. He'd come this far – he couldn't go back now. So he took a deep breath and walked back to the house in the middle of the street.

As soon as he'd rung the doorbell he felt like his heart wanted to jump out of his chest. He could run away right now, if he wanted. The door wasn't opened yet – there was nobody here, he just needed to turn around, he could be out of sight in less than twenty seconds, he just needed to turn around and he could –

But he didn't move. He didn't do anything, in fact. He just stood there.

And then the door opened. And it wasn't Horace.

The woman in front of him was very pretty. She couldn't have been much older than him and her brown eyes were almost hypnotizing. She was wearing a light blue dress and her blond hair was braided. 'Can I help you, monsieur?'

'I – I'm looking – I'm looking for Horace Somnusson. Does he live here?'

'Oh, you want to speak to my brother? Is he a friend of yours?'

Enoch just nodded, and the woman smiled. 'What's your name?'

'Enoch. Enoch O'Connor.'

Her eyes widened for a few seconds, and her smile faded a little before she said: 'I'll go get him. Wait here, I'll be right back.'

The door closed again. He could hear her footsteps fading away and lowered his head; maybe he could hear voices, too.

A minute later, the door opened again. And this time, the woman wasn't alone. He was there as well.

Horace just stared at him as if he was looking at a ghost, and almost ten seconds had passed before he finally said: 'Sabrina, tell mama I'll be home late.'

'Wait, where are you go–'

'On a walk. I'll be back this evening, just tell mama.'

Before his sister could say anything else he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

'Come with me.' Horace walked past him, averting his gaze. Enoch, too overwhelmed to disobey him, followed, not knowing what to do or say. Where were they going? Why did they have to leave? How far would they go? Was Horace mad? Oh God, please don't let him be mad –

They walked for minutes, and Enoch's anxiety was getting worse every moment. None of his questions were being answered, and he didn't know if Horace was sure where he was going.

But eventually the boy stopped walking. They weren't in the same neighbourhood anymore – they were standing in an empty cul-de-sac as the traffic outside on the street passed them by. Sun fell on Horace's face as he turned around to face Enoch.

'Horace,' he said, breathless all of the sudden, but even if he'd known what he was going to say he didn't get the time to finish. Horace had stepped towards him, took his face between his hands and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips.

Without hesitation, Enoch kissed him back.

When they finally let go of each other again, he couldn't help but smile faintly when he saw the blush on Horace's face. 'I've missed you...'

Horace smiled too. 'I've missed you too. Good God, I can't even begin to explain how scared I was you wouldn't return...'

'Well, luckily there wasn't much you had to worry about,' Enoch answered as he carefully pulled him closer to him. There was no-one here to see them anyway; he couldn't have cared less. 'I'm sorry I didn't contact you sooner, I just didn't know where I could find you.'

'No, it's not your fault.' Horace glanced up to him and placed a gentle hand on his chest. 'I – whatever you went through – I don't – it must've been horrible...'

Enoch didn't reply to that. His smile had faded a little but he didn't avert his gaze – he just wanted to look at Horace for now. It was almost surreal to have him here in front of him, to be able to touch him, to have him this close again.

'I love you.'

The words had left his mouth before he realised it, but he didn't take them back.

Horace stared at him for a moment, smiled and then took both his hands in his own. 'I love you too, Enoch.'

A silence fell, until Enoch continued hesitantly: 'I – I'm going back to London next Saturday, but before that... could I take you out for a drink? Is that how this works? If you don't want to that's fine too, I'll –'

'I would love to go out for a drink with you.' Now Horace was the one who was smiling at the other's red cheeks. He squeezed Enoch's hands and pulled him towards him again. 'We didn't really have a chance to go out on a proper date, did we?'

'N-no,' Enoch answered with a faint smile. 'No, not really.'

'Will you write me when you're back in London?' Horace tilted his head a little to the side. 'You have my address now.'

'Of course I'll write you,' he said without any hesitation. 'I could come visit you every month, if you want you could come to London every once in a while...'

Horace chuckled softly. 'That sounds wonderful. I'd love to come to London.'

They were both silent, and instead of breaking it Enoch decided to kiss him again. He wrapped his arms around his waist, holding him close. He could feel Horace smiling as he kissed him back, cupping his face in his hands.

'God, you're lovely,' Enoch mumbled as soon as their lips parted, and Horace laughed. 'Thank you, dear.'

He grabbed his hand again, and pulled him back towards the street. 'Come on, let's take a walk. I want to show you the city.'


	15. Épilogue

'Do your parents know you're coming home today?' Bronwyn asked, as she closed the buttons of her coat. It was very early in the morning, so they could take the very first boat that would take them to England. They'd stayed in a hotel for a night and now they were ready to go.

'They know I'll arrive somewhere this week,' Enoch replied. He'd heard back from them a week after he'd written to them; their message hadn't been very long either, but now he knew they were okay. They were both healthy and wrote that they were eagerly waiting for their son to return.

'Are we all ready?'

Horace's voice sounded through the hallway and immediately a smile appeared on Enoch's face.

The French boy was coming with them to England for a week. Enoch didn't know exactly what lie he'd told his parents, but Horace had said to him that he was also going to visit his father's side of the family living in London. Whatever it had been, Enoch was glad he could come.

Bronwyn had found out about them that very day on which they'd found each other – she would have done so eventually and after Enoch had returned it had been very hard to ignore her curious questions about this boy: why would Enoch go through all that trouble to find him again?

It shouldn't be very hard to imagine how relieved he'd been when she'd told him she didn't mind his new relationship with Horace. As long as he didn't get himself into any trouble, of course.

'Ready if you are,' Enoch answered with a faint smile. A second later, Claire came outside as well, pushing a wheelchair. She and Olivia had been getting along just fine, and Bronwyn was glad to see them both together.

So was Enoch. As the six of them walked towards the dock, he looked at them and not for the first time thought about how grateful he was that they were all there.

He'd missed Victor, though. There hadn't been a body to bury but Bronwyn and he had held a little memorial for him, with just the two of them. He wouldn't be forgotten.

'Have you ever been to London before, Claire?' Enoch asked as he lifted the girl up from the ground. A few hours ago they'd left France behind, and now they were looking at the white cliffs of Dover slowly appearing out of the mist.

Claire shook her head. 'I've never been to England.'

'Well, don't get your hopes up,' he said with a smirk. 'The weather is horrible. So are most people, by the way.'

'Oh, that's just not true!' he heard Bronwyn a little further away, and grinned before he shouted back: 'You're the exception that makes the rule, Wyn!'

'I don't believe you,' Claire said after a few moments of silence as she looked at the cliffs. 'You're nice, and so is Bronwyn.'

Enoch smiled faintly. 'I was only joking, Claire.'

He hesitated for a few moments before he said: 'Claire, you can't stay with me.' As soon as those words had left his mouth she glanced at him, a frown on her face, but before she could say anything he continued. 'Neither can Olivia. Bronwyn and I – we're too young to adopt you. But…' Again, he hesitated. 'Maybe, just maybe, my parents are willing to take care of the both of you. I don't live with them anymore, but they're lovely people and I'm sure that my mother has always wanted a daughter.' He smiled again. 'We didn't want to put the two of you in some orphanage where you'll never hear from us again. But you're old enough to make your own decisions now, so both you and Olivia can decide where to go.'

Claire didn't answer for almost five minutes, but from her expression it was very clear that she was thinking about her options. She was a very smart, young girl, and Enoch wanted nothing more than to call her his sister. But as he'd said: the choice was hers to make.

'I'll think about it, and I'll let you know, okay?' She looked up at him.

Enoch nodded, and kissed the top of her head before he put her back on the ground again. When he was sure she was standing on both feet he let her go. 'Alright, little one. For now we're staying together.'

She smiled, hugged him and ran off, back to Olivia in her wheelchair.

'You're very considerate of these girls… I never would've guessed that about you.' Horace had appeared next to him, a faint smile on his face. 'It's very sweet.'

Enoch's face immediately felt warmer than normal. 'It's just common decency.'

'You have a hard time admitting that you're actually nice, aren't you?' Horace's smile grew wider. 'You're not fooling anyone, Enoch.'

'And what do you mean by that?'

'I mean,' Horace carefully took his hand, 'that you're actually way more of a sweetheart than you want to let on.'

Enoch sighed, but then finally smiled and answered: 'Fine. But you win basically nothing in this argument.'

'I didn't realise we were having an argument.' Horace now stood in front of him, their fingers still intertwined, and looked up with a little light in his eyes. Enoch just smiled and pulled him closer, resting his forehead against Horace's.

'I'm so glad to have you around...' he muttered.

'And I'm glad to be with you.' Horace gently squeezed his hand, smiled and quickly kissed his cheek. 'I can't wait to meet your parents.'

It was a foggy, grey afternoon in London – and Enoch immediately felt home again. This was his city. This was where he belonged.

Luckily, they didn't draw much attention to themselves. The people of London saw many things weirder than a group of three adolescents with two younger girls, one of whom in a wheelchair, on a daily basis. Olive and Enoch were both wearing borrowed clothes, while Claire and Bronwyn had beautiful, bright dresses. Horace looked like he was on his way to a wedding.

'You look nervous.' Horace had been talking to Bronwyn until half a minute ago, but had caught up to Enoch who was leading the way. 'Are you doing alright?'

Enoch shrugged, avoiding Horace's worried gaze. 'I haven't seen my parents in years, I'm allowed to be nervous.'

'Of course you are, chéri. Of course.'

They walked in silence, until Enoch suddenly asked: 'Do you think they'll be mad at me?'

He could feel Horace staring at him. 'Why would they be mad, Enoch?'

He shrugged again. There were a lot of reasons why his parents could be mad at him – his father was unpredictable. 'I just... I never got the chance to let them know where I was, and I – they warned me about what could happen if I went to France. As if they knew that I –'

'I'm sure they're just glad you're alive.' When Horace took his hand he turned his head to look at him, and saw that the other was smiling. 'You're still their son. The fact that you're alive and well will mean enough to them.'

Enoch managed to smile back at him. 'Thank you, Horace.'

Horace gently squeezed his hand. 'No problem, dear.' Then he looked ahead again, and asked: 'Are we almost there yet?'

It was getting darker as they approached their destination. Claire had gotten tired an hour ago so she was now sitting on Enoch's shoulders, while Bronwyn still pushed Olivia's wheelchair. Horace apparently spoke a little Italian, which had surprised all of them – apparently the Somnusson family travelled a lot. It was fun to see the two of them communicate, especially since Olivia had had a hard time connecting due to the language barrier.

And then, after hours of walking through the city, they were there.

'This is it.'

Enoch came to a sudden halt, looking down the empty street. This is where he grew up.

He suddenly felt a little sick. He knew his parents were waiting for him, he was sure of it, but he didn't know what to expect. It was as if there was a little weight hanging on his heart.

Apparently, his friends had noticed this from his facial expression, and Bronwyn broke the silence. 'Enoch?'

'Hm?'

'We're right behind you, okay? Just remember that.'

He looked at her, and she smiled. 'It'll be alright, dear.'

Instead of smiling back he just nodded, took a deep breath and started walking again. It was only thirty more meters to the middle of the street – number 17, his house, was just like all the other houses, but for some reason he suddenly felt drawn to it. He couldn't turn back now.

His fingers were trembling as he rang the doorbell. He'd put Claire down again, and she took his hand as soon as she got the chance.

There were footsteps in the hallway, the sound of a key being turned inside a lock, and then the door opened.

The woman in front of him stared at him as if a ghost had just showed up at her front door. She looked just like he remembered her, although it was clear the last few years had been hard for her. There were grey lines in her dark hair and her face was paler and thinner, but besides that she hadn't changed a bit.

It took him almost thirty seconds to finally say something, and when he did he kept looking at her.

'So, this is my mother.' He pulled Claire closer to him, still holding her hand, and a smile slowly started appearing on his face. 'Mum... these are my friends.'

Elah O'Connor didn't answer. Instead, she stepped forwards, took her son's face in her hands and kissed his forehead as tears streamed down her face. Before she could give him the chance to do anything else she pulled him into a tight embrace.

When they finally let go of each other, Elah wiped the tears of Enoch's face and smiled at him. 'I'm so happy to see you again,' she whispered, before she kissed his cheek. Enoch just smiled back, feeling like an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He'd been away from his mother for more than three years and now here she was, right in front of him. 'I'm happy, too... Where's dad?'

'He's upstairs. I'll call him to let him know you're here.' Then she finally turned to the others. They'd all been standing quietly behind Enoch, watching the reunion between mother and son.

'You all look horribly tired. I take it you'll be staying here for a while?' Elah glanced at Bronwyn, her eyebrows raised.

'If it's not too much trouble, madam,' she answered quickly, but Elah just smiled and shook her head. 'Not at all, dear. Please, come inside. You all look like you could use something to eat.'


End file.
